


Past Life

by MiladyDragon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Attempted Kidnapping, Hypnotism, M/M, Mystery, Private Investigators, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiladyDragon/pseuds/MiladyDragon
Summary: Clint Barton is a fairly successful private investigator and, when his foster brother, Sam Wilson, asks him for help, he agrees.  A man has appeared on the doorstep of the halfway house Sam runs, with no memory and unable to speak, and Clint thinks this is going to be a fairly straightforward missing persons' case.He's very wrong.Clint is soon drawn into a mystery involving love, espionage, murder, and a past life that's encroaching into the present.  If he can negotiate his way through all that, then perhaps he can regain a love he lost a very long time ago.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 97
Collections: Marvel Big Bang 2019





	Past Life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Past Life - Artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188726) by [Max72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Max72/pseuds/Max72). 

> This is my story for Marvel Bang 2019. This is loosely based on the movie, "Dead Again", starring Kenneth Brannagh and Emma Thompson, so if you've seen the movie and recognize bits, that's why. 
> 
> Artwork by Max72...Please go and give them all the love.

“Hey, man,” Sam Wilson greeted with a tired smile, “thanks for coming.”

Clint Barton nodded, taking the chair opposite Sam’s desk. There really hadn’t been a choice; when Sam called, Clint was going to answer. They’d been practically raised together, Sam’s Mom taking in a disgruntled, angry, and hurting youngster who’d been betrayed by practically everyone who’d ever known him, all before the age of fourteen; including Barney, who should have done better by his younger brother than to leave him beaten and bloody in a ditch outside some crappy little Midwestern town in the middle of nowhere. Clint had no idea what would have happened if Darlene Wilson hadn’t agreed to accept him as a foster kid, after his long stint in the hospital. He really didn’t want to think about it, honestly. 

“What’s up, Sammy?” Sam didn’t call on him often, because if he was anything, it was self-sufficient in ways Clint never would be, so Clint figured it would have to have been serious. Well, just from the look on his foster brother’s face he could tell that it was.

Sam leaned his elbows on his desk. The office was cluttered in a good way, with books and files scattered about on every surface, while a computer took up pride of place on the desktop. Five large, black filing cabinets took up one wall, their tops covered with various trophies and knickknacks, including the framed target with the arrow dead center that Sam had kept when Clint had won his way onto the Olympic team with that perfect bullseye.

On another wall was a comfortable-looking leather sofa, over which hung several pictures. Clint knew there were at least two of him and the Wilsons, back when he’d been a snotty brat trying very hard to get himself kicked out of one more foster home and failing miserably. 

Mama Darlene had had the patience of a saint. Even after so many years, he had no idea how she’d put up with his insolent ass long enough for him to accept that he’d really lucked out with this final placement.

Sam sighed. “I need your help.”

Not a surprise.

“In an official capacity.”

Now, that _was_ a surprise. Sure, he’d known that Sam was going to ask for _something_, but not like that. “Why do you need a private investigator?”

Sam met his eyes squarely. “Yesterday, a man showed up on our doorstep. He was in rough shape…I could tell he was fighting some nasty demons, and that was _before_ I realized that, not only was he unable to speak, but he had no idea who he was.”

That made sense, that someone with those issues would suddenly appear here. Stark House was a halfway house for former soldiers suffering from various issues, not only just PTSD, and Sam ran the place like a well-oiled machine, as well as being the lead counselor. The building had once been, in a serious case of irony gone wild, a military installation, bought up by the Maria Stark Foundation and then donated to the Veterans Administration. Sam had been a counselor with the VA at the local hospital at the time and had jumped at the chance to take on the responsibility such a facility entailed. Clint was pretty proud of him for jumping in with both feet the way he had.

“Well,” he went on, “you know that’s how a few of the soldiers in residence got here, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I just got him a room, something clean to wear and something hot to eat, then made sure he got to bed. I did consider at the time that he was a little too well-dressed to be homeless, but any sort of underlying condition might not have presented itself until he was settled back into regular life. Hell, we see it all the time…former military being just fine after discharge and then, months or years down the road…” Sam sighed again. “You see a lot of shit in this job, and all we can do is help out as best we can.”

Clint nodded. Sam was damned good at what he did, but even he knew that his brother wasn’t always successful. He also knew Sam couldn’t go into any sort of detail, patient privilege and all, but then Clint really didn’t want to know. 

He had enough of his own nightmares, he didn’t need anyone else’s on top of that.

“Of course, I had Steve check into him, as much as he could. I got him a picture and sent it on.”

Their friend, Steve Rogers, was the Head Administrator for Veterans Affairs, and as such would be responsible for any new admissions into Stark House. Clint had always thought it hilarious that someone as gung-ho and all-American as Captain Steve Rogers would have retired from the Army to become a glorified paper-pusher, but Steve enjoyed his work with the veterans who came to the VA for help.

Clint also suspected it had to do with his lover, Bucky Barnes, who’d been one of the many veterans Sam had been able to help after being discharged. Steve hadn’t wanted Bucky to go through all that shit alone, and had gladly given up his own commission for the man he loved.

“Steve couldn’t find him in the system.”

“The government computers aren’t infallible,” Clint pointed out.

“No, they aren’t, but at least they do manage to keep photos on file of everyone who’s ever served in any of the armed forces…and this guy wasn’t in that database. Nor in any of the international ones Steve shouldn’t have access to but actually does.” 

“And this is why you called me?” Clint could understand; if this mysterious man had amnesia, then he would need someone to help track down his identity.

“Yeah. I’d keep him here, but this is for vets only, and if he isn’t one…if it got out that I was housing a non-veteran, it could affect our funding. The Maria Stark Foundation is generous, but even they can’t buck the rules.”

Clint wasn’t so sure of that, knowing Tony Stark’s reputation, but he supposed Sam had a point. “So…what _haven’t_ you told me about him?”

One side of Sam’s mouth curled upward in acknowledgement of Clint’s supposition. “He’s certainly suffering from some sort of PTSD, one that I believe is the reason for the amnesia. As for him not speaking…I know he’s capable of it. So, I have to attribute that to the PTSD as well, and whatever trauma brought it on in the first place.”

“How do you know he can talk?”

“He…has nightmares. It freaked out the guy sleeping just next door. Swears the guy shouted out the demand that someone help him, and then proceeded to scream the house down. When we tried to get in to help him, he’d tucked the room’s only chair under the doorknob, so we had to break it down in order to get to him. When he finally calmed down, he couldn’t speak again.”

Clint whistled. “But what do you think I can do? I mean, I can certainly see about finding out his identity, but shouldn’t that be a thing for the cops?”

“The police would just dump him off at the nearest psych ward, and I don’t really think that’s the best thing. He needs something normal, something that won’t freak him out any more than he already is.”

“Sam…” He just knew what was coming next.

Clint _hated_ having people in his apartment. It was his personal space, his safe place, and the very idea of someone there…it was impossible. He didn’t even take _dates_ back to his place. So why would he do that with a complete stranger…

“Clint, he needs someone, and just admitting him to the hospital…I don’t know, but it might do more to hurt than to help. And yes, I know how you feel about people touching your stuff, but can’t you make an exception in this case?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually encouraging me to take in a mentally imbalanced stranger…”

“Clint…” the expression on Sam’s face would have melted the heart of even the most hard-hearted of people, and that certainly _wasn’t_ Clint Barton. “I don’t want to call in one of the many favors you owe me…but I’m just not sure the psych ward is the best place for him. He’s not violent, and I don’t think he’s mentally imbalanced, as you put it. He has nightmares, yes…and they’re really nasty ones. But I’m positive once he knows who he is, he’ll be fine.”

Okay, this was getting out of hand. Sam was a trained psychological counselor…shouldn’t he be advising Clint to take the guy to the nearest hospital for evaluation? What was it about this person that had the PI’s brother attempting to buck the system like this? It didn’t make sense…

Well, maybe it did, now that Clint really thought about it. Sam wanted to help anyone who needed it and, if he couldn’t keep the man under his own roof then he’d want him looked after by someone he could trust. How many times had Sam bitched about what his vets had gone through under the care of an unfeeling system? It was what made him one of the best psychologists out there…his need to make sure his people were taken care of properly. This stranger might not have been a veteran, but Clint could tell he’d already gotten under Sam’s skin. 

Which wasn’t difficult. Sam might have been built like he could kick the ass of an NFL linebacker, but that tough exterior hid the insides of a walking marshmallow.

“And what makes you think he’ll trust me to look after him?” Clint felt himself giving in to Sam’s puppy eyes. Damnit, he really would do anything for the man who was more of a brother than his biological one had been. 

“Because what he needs is someone doing their damnedest to help him find out who he is. The cops would make out a report, but they have so many other cases to solve, a single amnesiac might not get their full attention. I know you’ll do your best to figure things out. Clint, this is one of those cases that could so easily get lost in the system. That is the worst possible thing to happen.” Sam leaned forward. “He needs someone in his corner. You’re the best PI out there, and I’m not just saying that because you’re my brother. You see things that others don’t. This guy needs someone like that, someone who will keep their full attention on him, and what he’s going through. Please, Clint…”

Fuck. He hated when Sam begged like that. Clint was such a pushover for his younger brother. He wasn’t really sure about the whole thing, but if Sam had faith in him…

“Look,” he sighed, knuckling under to sibling pressure, “I’ll take him to see Bucky, get him to take a few pictures to put in the paper and online, and see what that rakes up. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will recognize your guy. I can also have Maria sniff around, maybe she can give me access to the missing persons’ reports…”

The smile Sam gave him was brilliant. “You are awesome.”

The PI rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Let’s see if your mystery man lets me do anything first. If he’s that traumatized, then there might be some trust issues and I might end up having to take him up to the hospital anyway.”

Sam nodded, allowing that. “I know he’ll be in good hands. You know I’d keep him here if I could…”

That was just it, Clint _did_ know that. Hell, Sam would have tried to take him back to his own place, if he’d had the room and no roommate to deal with. Brock Rumlow was an asshole, and Clint didn’t know how Sam dealt with him. There shouldn’t be enough patience in the world to live in the same apartment as Rumlow, yet Sam did it. Clint had a hell of a lot of respect for his brother for it.

Although there were days when he wished Sam would kick the man’s homophobic ass out. Not that Clint was even sure Sam knew that Rumlow was homophobic, because Rumlow made an effort to be polite when Clint was visiting, and Sam wouldn’t put up with that sort of shit anyway. Maybe he should mention the fact in casual conversation, maybe when Rumlow wasn’t around, in order to avoid getting punched by the asshole. His face might not have been much, but he liked it just the way it was.

Clint made a mental note about it. Not that he’d ever meddle in Sam’s life…

Yeah, he totally would. Because Sam had done the exact same thing to him on several occasions, and turnabout was fair play in Clint’s book.

“Maybe I’d better see this guy and make sure this plan you’ve come up with is fine with him?” This wouldn’t go Sam’s way if the stranger took one look at him and rejected the offer of help, and he wasn’t about to assume a thing until he’d met his possible new client.

“Come on then.” Sam got up from his desk. “We put him in a room on the third floor, where all our residents stay.”

Clint wasn’t all that familiar with the layout of Stark House, so he followed Sam up a rickety elevator to the third floor. The room was just down the rather plain hallway, lined with doors that were either opened or closed. The door they wanted was closed, and Sam pushed it open, calling out. 

The room was empty.

“He’s down in the showers,” a voice said. Clint turned to regard the man standing in another of the doorways, leaning on the jamb and his arms crossed. He looked like he could seriously kick all sorts of ass, and the PI didn’t want to know just what sort of mental issues he had, because he had the feeling they were damned scary if they could put a man like that in here.

“Thanks, Alan,” Sam said gratefully. He looked at Clint. “I’ll go and fetch him.”

Clint waved him away, aiming to poke his nose around to see what he could discover about the man he was supposed to be helping, and the fastest way to do that would be to go through his would-be client’s belongings. Sure, he was being nosy, but that was what he was usually paid to do, when he wasn’t accepting _pro bono_ cases from family.

Of course, he wasn’t above accepting anything that any sort of family of the man might offer as a reward. He had bills to pay and the very nature of being a private investigator meant he could go for months without getting another job. Luckily for him, that didn’t happen all that often, but Clint could recall when it had, and he’d hated that feeling of uselessness.

The room was tiny, with only a twin bed, a bedside table, and a chair as its furnishings. He thought about what Sam had said, about the stranger using that chair to block the door, and could see where it would be a fairly effective barricade…if the door jamb wasn’t messed up from when they’d knocked it in last night.

He decided on the closet first. Opening the sliding door, Clint saw that the only thing in it was a suit and a white shirt, a deep red tie looped around the top of the hanger that the shirt had been hung on.

The suit was dark blue and, while he really didn’t know a damned thing about suits – he was a t-shirt and jeans kinda guy – even he could tell that it was fairly expensive. He reached in and tugged out the hanger that the jacket was on, immediately noticing a tear along the back and another on the shoulder, marring the smooth fabric. 

He could infer at least one thing about that…whoever the guy was, he’d been in some sort of fight before he’d found himself on Sam’s doorstep. 

The label in the suit claimed it was Dolce and Gabbana. Clint knew that brand, knew it meant the suit was most likely tailored to its owner. Clint carefully rifled through the pockets, finding a single left-hand glove which, to his mind, meant that the man had had some sort of coat on at some point. Somehow, he’d lost the overcoat and the second glove, which had him wondering if it had something to do with the fight or if it had happened at some other time. It had been chilly last night, so the coat would have been needed.

There was nothing else in the pockets, which added to the belief there was a missing overcoat out there somewhere. There wasn’t even any sort of wallet in the trouser pockets, nor a cellphone. Robbery, maybe? Had someone attempted to mug him, and had literally knocked the sense out of him? He would have to ask Sam if there’s been any sort of injury he could see when the man had arrived last night.

There was also a scent to the jacket…Clint brought it to his nose, taking a deep whiff. It was a spicy cologne, and Clint really liked it.

“Do you usually sniff other people’s clothes?” Sam’s amused voice called from the doorway.

Clint started, almost dropping the hanger. Instead, he tried to play it cool as he met his brother’s eyes, knowing he was blushing just a little and hoping Sam wouldn’t notice.

“It…” he stammered as he put the jacket back in the closet. Sam was smirking at him, which wasn’t helping his embarrassment. “It’s the cologne. It smells expensive. The suit is, too…” He trailed off as a man in a plain bathrobe came into the room, Clint’s breath catching in his lungs as he took in handsome features and beautiful blue eyes.

The man would have been about Clint’s height, and he was well-built without being overly muscular. He was certainly an active sort, just judging from his compact form and corded forearms. His brown hair was receding, but that didn’t detract at all from his good looks; if anything, it enhanced them, bringing attention to the strong jawline and the cheekbones and the nose that looked as if it might have been broken once and not reset properly. He wasn’t going to get into the fact that he had the prettiest eyes Clint had ever seen in _anyone_.

The bathrobe was tied at the waist, but it was open just enough to reveal some really nice chest hair that would have been nice to run fingers through. Past the hem of the robe were athletic thighs and well-formed calves. And his feet…

_Damnit, Barton…get a grip! _

He couldn’t go lusting after someone who was going to be a potential client, let alone one who didn’t recall his own name. For all Clint knew, the guy could have been married, even though there wasn’t a ring currently in sight. If he’d been mugged, any jewelry would have been taken anyway. 

No, he had to get his libido under control. Perving on someone who was mentally compromised wasn’t the way to go at all; it was just plain creepy and, while Clint might not have always done everything legally, he wasn’t about to make the moves on a guy who thought it was necessary to cram a chair under his doorknob at night. There was a story behind that, and the PI was a little afraid to ask.

“Um, hi.” _Real smooth_… 

Clint put the suit back in the closet, then took a couple of steps toward the man. There was a wariness in his gaze that the PI couldn’t blame him for having. After all, he’d just been sniffing the man’s jacket.

“I’m Clint Barton.” He held out a hand. “I’m a private investigator, and Sam asked me to help you try to find out who you are.”

His new client slowly accepted the handshake. His hand was warm, the grip strong but not overpowering. There were calluses on his hand that led the PI to think the man did a lot of writing with a pen.

He didn’t shake long; Clint didn’t want to freak the guy out, and he seemed on the fence about trusting anyone at the moment, for which Clint didn’t blame him for at all.

“Clint and I go way back, ever since my Mom practically adopted his grumpy ass,” Sam added reassuringly. “He’s a good guy and only wants to help.” The knowing look in his eyes belied his words, which meant Clint wasn’t hiding his rather instant attraction to the stranger. 

Well, Sam _had_ always been able to read Clint like a book, for as long as he could remember. Clint wasn’t fooling him at all.

Which sucked, but then he also knew that Sam was aware he’d never take advantage. And he wouldn’t. Clint’s love life might suck, but it wasn’t because he was a bastard. 

Nope, it was because he always got in over his head, thought it was love, and then jumped in with both feet only to discover it hadn’t been the real thing, after all. 

“Sam’s right,” Clint said. “I know it has to be scary for you right now, but all I want to do is get you back to your family as soon as we can.” He gave the man an encouraging smile. “I have a friend at the local paper. We’ll start there first, then maybe I can have another friend at the police department comb through some missing persons reports.” Bucky was always willing to help out a friend, and Maria, a detective at the local precinct, could be counted on as long as Clint made it worth her while. Usually, that meant the fancy donuts and coffee, unless the chance to kick righteous ass came up. “Someone out there is missing you, and we’ll make sure you get home.”

Those blue eyes were watching Clint’s every move and, after a couple of silent minutes, he nodded in agreement with the plan. 

“Fantastic. Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll head out?”

The man – and Clint really needed to come up with something to call him, because he just couldn’t keep saying “the man” in his head – nodded once again, moving toward the closet. Clint left the room to give him a little privacy, Sam on his heels. When the PI turned, his foster brother had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Really, Clint?”

“What? You’re not blind, Sam. He’s gorgeous! And you know damned well I won’t do anything while he’s impaired like this.” He was keeping his voice down; the last thing Clint needed was for his new client to overhear.

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “I know, man. But there’s always afterward…”

“Like someone as classy as that guy obviously is would want a beaten-down PI like me.”

“You have the shittiest self-esteem of anyone I’ve ever met…and I deal with vets who’ve lost limbs.”

Clint shrugged, not saying anything to rebut that comment. Sam was right. However, he wasn’t about to put up with his brother head-shrinking him. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have things he could do that he was fucking proud of…he still had that Olympic gold medal in its frame back at his apartment, after all. He might have used all the money he’d gotten from the various endorsements to start up his private investigator business – and practically sucked his account dry in the process – but his business was also something he was proud of. He was a damned good investigator, and he earned every dollar he made. His reputation was nothing to sneeze at, either.

The noise of the door opening had them both glancing toward the sound. The man hovered uncertainly in the doorway, dressed except for his jacket, which was looped over his arm. The white shirt he’d been wearing looked a little worse for wear, like the jacket had, and Clint made a mental note to find him something else to wear if the case went on for longer than a couple of days.

“You ready?” he asked.

The man nodded, giving Clint a tiny smile.

Which did funny things to Clint’s heart.

_Damnit_.

**********

The _Daily Gazette _was on the far side of town from Stark House. Traffic wasn’t all that bad at that time of the day, and Clint drove his classic Dodge Charger through the middle of town, keeping up a steady wave of chatter in either an effort to keep the quiet from getting oppressive, or out of sheer nervousness over the cute guy in the passenger seat…

He really didn’t want to go with either explanation, if he was being truthful about it. Because he wasn’t someone who _usually_ found himself wanting to chatter someone’s ear off and could handle the quiet just fine. After all, he was an Olympic caliber archer, which meant he’d spent more time inside his head than out, letting the quiet soothe him as he lined up to make one impossible shot after another. This sort of shit shouldn’t be bothering him. 

He was at a complete and utter loss to understand it, so he gave it up as a lost cause and just kept up with letting his mouth flap and words come out.

“Just yell if you see anything you recognize…well, I don’t mean yell, but you can poke me or something, and we’ll stop, only if you poke me too hard I might wreck, so don’t do that with any kind of force, okay? Just, any sort of clue could help in figuring out who you are…oh, and I hope you don’t mind if I kinda give you a name temporarily, ‘cause it’s impolite to keep saying, ‘Hey you’, every time I want to get your attention. So…I was thinking of maybe calling you John for now. I know it’s a really massive cliché, but it’ll work for the short time you don’t remember who you are, because I’m hoping we can get your identity figured out in no time at all. I know it doesn’t really suit you, but I’m a blank on any other sort of name…unless you can think of one you’d rather use for the time being…”

Every time he’d look across the front seat at his client, there was just this expression of bemusement on the guy’s face, one that made Clint think he was about to shake his head in disbelief at Clint’s attempt at verbal diarrhea. At least he wasn’t freaking the poor man out, which was a plus.

Honestly, Clint had no idea why he was rambling this way. Usually, he was a lot better at talking to clients than this shit. There was just something about the man, something that made the PI want to impress him, which had become a mess of royal proportions. He really should just give up while he was behind.

He managed to pull up into the lot of the _Gazette _before he made more of a fool out of himself than he already had. Which, really, was far too late to worry about, if he was being honest with himself.

The _Gazette_ wasn’t the largest paper in town, but they did have a fairly good online presence; plus, it helped that Clint had a reporter friend who was always willing to do him a favor. 

He’d met Bucky through Steve. James Buchanan Barnes had been Steve Rogers’ childhood friend. They’d gone into the Army together, Steve rising to the rank of Captain while Bucky had become his trusted lieutenant…until a roadside IED had taken Bucky’s arm and had cashiered him out of the military. He’d ended up at Sam’s halfway house, and Steve had taken his retirement and gone to work at the VA, in order to help Bucky through his recovery. That closeness had changed them from best friends to lovers, and Clint absolutely no compunctions about teasing either of them for being hideously cute together.

“Once we get done here,” Clint said as he got out of the car, the newly minted John following, “we can grab some food and head back to my place. I hope you don’t mind staying with me; it just makes sense in case we get nibbles from the paper or from the cop I know and that I will call as soon as we get back home.” Sam had been correct about Clint not liking people being in his space; it wasn’t just about getting his stuff messed with, it also had to do with the idea that his personal apartment was his safe space, and he hated having strangers encroaching in on his territory. He did work from home, but he never met clients there, normally doing his business at one of the local diners or coffee shops in town. Usually it was just better to meet in public than in private.

However, there was something about this guy…Clint couldn’t put his finger on it, but for some reason he didn’t really mind taking him home. Sure, he had at first, when Sam had mentioned it, but that had been before meeting the man. A part of Clint felt as if he’d known John all his life, but that was patently ridiculous. He’d be recognizing him if, somehow, the PI had met him before.

John nodded, ducking his head slightly. But not before Clint saw the naked hope in his eyes – his beautiful, expressive blue eyes. He was counting on Clint to help him, to get his identity back. 

He only hoped he was up to the task.

The _Gazette’s_ offices didn’t look like much; but then, the paper had been around for nearly one hundred years, and there was a lot of history in the building, in the old articles that someone had hung on the walls, and the awards that the paper had won in that time alongside them. Clint nodded to the receptionist, a cute girl named Darcy, as they walked past, and she nodded back with a chipper greeting, smiling. The PI had been there often enough, so he was pretty well known by everyone working there by now and didn’t have to even check in at the desk like other visitors were required to do.

He didn’t head toward the bullpen, because Bucky didn’t work there. He had his office down in the basement of all places, a windowless area just off the paper’s main archive. When Clint had asked why Bucky chose to work down there, his friend had shrugged and said the enclosed space made him feel safe. Clint supposed after the open desert, where danger lurked everywhere despite there not looking as if there were any places to hide, any area where a person could be surrounded by four walls and would have a single door that offered entrance to the room really was a step up.

Bucky Barnes was sitting at his desk when they stopped at the open door. It was odd…as much as Clint liked the former soldier, there was always something that, on first sight, gave the PI an almost superstitious shiver. It happened every single damned time, and he couldn’t explain it. However, it didn’t last long, and Clint never let it stop him from being Bucky’s friend.

The office itself would have been gloomy if not for the fact that the cinderblock walls had been painted a light blue, which reflected the light from the overhead fixtures. Filing cabinets lined the wall behind the large, metal desk, and a table with all sorts of equipment – cameras, both still and motion, recorders, and other miscellaneous stuff – was against another wall, over which hung a brightly painted woods scene that Clint knew for a fact had been done by Steve himself. Clint had one of his own in his apartment, only his was of a cityscape. 

Steve was really the best artist he’d ever met, at least in Clint’s own opinion. He could be making real money at it if he’d had any inclination to do something about it.

A bare metal rack was crammed full of books and other sorts of printed media, and it was leaning precariously against yet another wall, next to a copy machine/printer set-up that looked to be some sort of relic from the 90’s. It was huge, and it practically loomed. Clint often wondered if the thing would, someday, come to life and try to ‘collate’ the whole building.

“A little birdie told me you were on the way,” Bucky said by way of greeting. He stood up from the desk, smirking, his long dark hair pulled back from his face in a really sloppy ponytail. 

Bucky was a little taller than Clint, and could be physically imposing, especially with the gleaming silver prosthetic left arm. However, the guy was one of the biggest goofballs on the face of the planet, despite the ongoing issues he had with trusting people and PTSD. Anyone who didn’t know him would have been intimidated by what his friends called his ‘murder face’, but then Clint had often been told he had the same sort of resting murder face as Bucky did. 

Sure, Bucky would easily kill with his bare hands. Not that he would. It just looked like he’d do that sort of thing if he was pissed off.

Clint snorted. “I should’ve known Sam would call.”

“Of course you should’ve.” He smiled, and it wiped away any trace of danger in his friend, leaving the likeable goofball behind. “And this must be your new client?”

Clint nodded, ushering John forward from where he’d been lurking just behind the PI. “For now, I’m calling him John. John,” he turned toward his client, “this is Bucky Barnes. He’s a friend, and an all-around good guy. He’s gonna take your picture and make sure it gets posted on the _Gazette_ website and printed in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Hopefully we’ll get some hits from those,” Bucky agreed, grabbing a digital camera then coming out from around the desk. “I’ll also send a copy over to Maria. Sam said he’d call her as well and let her know to expect it.”

“At this point,” Clint joked, “maybe I should have let Sam handle it all himself.” He’d planned on calling Maria himself, but then Maria always _had_ liked Sam best. Mainly because Sam didn’t have a rap sheet full of youthfully exuberant juvie offenses. 

Unlike Clint. Only his offenses hadn’t been so youthful _or_ exuberant.

Bucky laughed. “Why would he, when he’s got you to do all the real work?” He motioned toward a clear section of wall. “If you’ll stand over there, I’ll get a better photo if there isn’t anything in it with you.”

John glanced at Clint, who nodded in agreement, and then stepped over to where Bucky indicated. A couple of clicks of the camera, and they were done, Bucky heading back around the desk in order to plug the camera into the computer that sat there. “Have a seat,” he invited, waving toward the visitor chair next to the desk. “This’ll only take a few minutes, and I want to get some information for the article that will go with the picture.”

This time, John didn’t look toward Clint, and took the offered chair. This was something Clint was familiar with; Bucky would want to know what sort of identifying information they could add for anyone who would be looking for their resident amnesiac.

So, Clint shared as much as he felt was needed, without going into too much detail; he didn’t share that there had been a left-handed glove found in John’s pocket, only that there’d been one, knowing that they would need to hold something back so that whoever came forward would be able to prove who they were with any clue that hadn’t been broadcast. Bucky typed it all up one-handed, his prosthetic not quite up to the fine motor skills that typing entailed. This newest prosthetic was a far cry from the one he’d had when he’d first been fitted; that one had only had a three-clawed hand on the end, and had been a mass of metal infrastructure with nothing hiding the inner workings. 

This one, though, was a latest generation Stark model and, while it was still all metal, looked more like an actual arm, metal flowing in shifting patterns as Bucky used it for his everyday tasks. The fingers were still a little glitchy, and Bucky had a tendency to drop smaller objects, but it was getting better the higher tech the equipment became and the more he got used to it.

“Look, John,” he said, without stopped what he was doing, “I know this is some scary shit you’re dealing with at the moment, but Clint’s a good guy and he’ll see you through.”

No, Clint wasn’t blushing at the praise.

His friend stopped typing long enough to meet John’s wary gaze. “I understand a bit, because the same thing happened to me not that long ago.”

Clint started. This was something he hadn’t known. It must have been before he and Bucky had become friends, and he listened intently as the reporter told the story.

“I wasn’t always a journalist,” he began, “as I’m sure you guessed.” He waved his prosthetic hand around, drawing attention to the gleaming metal. “And I saw a lot as a soldier. But, on my first assignment with the _Gazette_, I was sent out on a triple homicide with one of the more experienced guys. It was this man who’d butchered his entire family with an axe, of all things. I mean, it was a mess. Blood and limbs and brains _everywhere_. Hell, we weren’t even supposed to have been inside that house, but Ben knew one of the cops and we got in because the guy owed Ben a major favor. Like I said, I saw a lot on the battlefield, even saw my own arm blown off, but this…it was indescribable.”

“This is going somewhere, right?” Clint interrupted, a little grossed out by the story and not ashamed to show it. It didn’t help that he remembered that shit happening, although he hadn’t read about it in the paper. The nightly news at the time had been screaming about it for weeks, and he hadn’t been able to escape hearing about all the gory details over and over again. Only, he hadn’t known Bucky had been even peripherally involved in that crap.

“I wouldn’t be talking about it if it weren’t,” Bucky answered sarcastically. “Can I finish, please?”

Clint waved him on.

“Thank you.” He turned his eyes back to John. “Now, like I said, it was a mess. Me, who was supposed to have been this badass combat soldier, took one look at the scene and passed out. When I woke up in the hospital, I had absolutely no memory of who I was, or where I was. It was the scariest damned thing I’ve ever been through, and I’d once run through heavy fire and managed to avoid actually getting my ass shot off while dragging my unconscious best friend over my shoulder, not knowing if Steve was even alive or dead.”

Okay, this story _did_ have a point to it. Suddenly Clint wanted to hug Bucky for sharing this, for letting John know that he really wasn’t alone.

Bucky’s expression was haunted as he continued. “I mean, I remembered nothing. Not my name, or where I was from…not even my best friend, who was trying so very hard not to freak out. Jesus, Steve thought he’d seen it all, and then suddenly I had no clue about _anything_. Then, about two weeks later, Steve up out of the blue tells me he loves me, and the fact that I didn’t remember him was fine, that he would remember for both of us. And,” he made an explosive gesture with his hands, “_boom_. It all came back in a rush. All it took was for my best friend to tell me he loved me for all of my memories to slam back into my brain. Gave me a hell of a headache, but it was so worth it. So,” he reached across the desk, as if he was going to hold John’s hand and then thought better of it, “you just hang in there. Clint’s gonna do his best to help, and I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll get everything back sooner rather than later. Just trust him, and trust that there are people out there who get what you’re going through and who are also willing to help.”

John had such a look of awe on his face, and he actually touched the back of Bucky’s hand in thanks. The man nodded, a small, grateful smile pulling his lips upward, his eyes kind and accepting of what Bucky had just shared.

Clint had to clear his throat twice before he could speak past the lump in his throat, even as he was fighting off the rather illogical jealousy that was suddenly rearing its ugly head. There was absolutely no reason for him to be jealous of Bucky connecting with John on a level that Clint couldn’t reach, especially since he’d just met John this morning, but for some reason he just couldn’t help it. “How come I’ve never heard this story before?” he finally managed.

Bucky shrugged. “Just never shared it before. Steve hates that it happened, because of everything I’d gone through _before_ making a fool out of myself in front of about six cops, a forensics team, and the man who was my boss at the time.” His voice had a tinge of laughter to it. “And you know Sam…he’d think of it as it being under patient privilege, even though I wasn’t his patient anymore at the time.”

He leaned back, shrugging. “I’ll get the pictures posted and ready for the print run later today.”

“Don’t forget Maria.”

“Like I could. That woman is fucking scary. You might want to call her yourself anyway, just to check in and give her the details you gave me.”

Clint nodded. As it was, Maria would most likely be put out a little by Sam coming to Clint first, but his foster brother had been correct…the police were busy, and chances were they might not really have the time for a full investigation of a man who’d somehow lost his memory. This was best left to the private investigators, specifically Clint himself, and he would respect whatever time Maria could spare to put in on the case. Really, all she would need to do was input John’s face into their database, and it would do the rest automatically. That was, if there was a missing persons’ report out on him.

Clint didn’t want to consider John being alone, that no one would miss him. And, surely, _someone_ would have reported a mugging, which was what the PI believed had happened, judging from the evidence. Sam hadn’t had any idea about that, not actually having looked John over for injuries at the time, so it was a valid theory at this point.

He was determined to get to the bottom of things. John needed him, and Clint wanted to help and, if in the back of his mind he was considering the idea that he wanted to know if John was taken, well, no one but him needed to know that.

**********

Clint’s apartment was in a building that didn’t look like much on the outside…hell, it didn’t look like much on the _inside_, either. The place had been run by Russian mobsters for a while, but eventually they’d all been cleared out and the property was slowly regaining some of its original charm. He loved the area, even if it was as rundown as the apartment building, but the residents and neighbors were all good people, looking out for each other now that the crime stats had started to shrink.

His place was on the fifth floor. Clint chose to bypass the elevator, not willing to risk getting stuck – a guy was due out next week to figure out why it had a tendency to stop whenever it felt like it – watching John as they made the trek up the stairs, hoping his guest wasn’t going to be too tired out by the climb. John seemed just fine, which was a testament to whatever exercise regime he’d been following before completely forgetting he even had one.

They’d stopped for takeout on the way. Clint had suggested Thai but, since John couldn’t even remember what he liked eating, the decisions involved had almost been fraught with the chance of making all sorts of mistakes. Hell, John couldn’t even recall if he had any food allergies, so Clint had surreptitiously checked to make sure his cellphone was charged enough that he could call 911 if anything came up.

He passed off the bags to his guest, the best to unlock his apartment door, ushering John inside once the door was open. “Oops,” he said, once he noticed that he’d left the place a mess that morning, “looks like the cleaning lady hasn’t been in yet.” 

Not that he had an actual cleaning lady. Clint couldn’t afford one, even if he trusted a complete stranger to come in and keep the place tidy.

He quickly collected the t-shirt he’d draped over the back of the couch, as well as his second-favorite pair of combat boots that he’d just left where he’d taken them off last night, right in the middle of the brightly colored rug that covered the hardwood floor. There was also the book that Steve had recommended to him laying open on the scuffed-up coffee table, spine up, and it seemed as if John took more offense to that than he had the dirty clothes laying around, if the affronted glare was anything to go by. Clint quickly found an old flyer for a sale at the local bodega and used it as a bookmark, setting the book out of the way.

“Let me take those.” John handed the bags of food over, and Clint set them down where the book had been, on top of several magazines it had been covering and next to the laptop he kept there for business purposes. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll give you the ten-cent tour.”

Once John had acknowledged the idea as a good one, Clint went out to the kitchen to fetch paper plates and utensils, then pulled two cans of beer from the fridge. He was only gone a couple of minutes and, when he returned, it was to see John staring at the gold medal hanging in pride of place on the wall in its shadow box, the shelf next to it holding trophies and ribbons of his former archery career. There were also photos from his various promotional tours, as well as a couple with some fairly famous celebrities. Next to the mini shrine was his competition bow in its sealed glass case; he’d only ever used it during his time in the Olympics, preferring the older recurve he kept in its case under his bed for his every day shooting needs.

John turned, his eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Yeah,” Clint answered, “I won that at the actual Olympics. Sometimes I wonder if I should have kept up the competitive archery, but I’m pretty proud of the job I do as a PI. I still keep my hand in, usually it’s up at the community center teaching kids. After _The Hunger Games_ came out, archery got cool.”

His guest looked impressed. He glanced around, motioning toward the longbow hung on the wall over the couch. 

“That’s a genuine longbow, made sometime in the 1400’s. Steve found it in an actual garage sale and bought it for a pittance. I had it authenticated, and about shit myself when it came back as that old. The certificate on it is in my safe…not that I’ll ever sell it. It’s probably the best gift I’ve ever gotten. It means a lot to me.”

John nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did, and just didn’t remember why.

The Thai went down well, and they ate in silence…well, Clint himself ate in silence; John didn’t have a choice. He wondered just what the other man’s voice sounded like, and hoped to hear it someday. Usually, this was the point when he’d be getting uncomfortable at having a near-stranger in his place, but that feeling didn’t come. It seemed as if John was slotting himself into Clint’s life easily, as if he belonged there.

Well, maybe Clint was reading a little too much into it. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that having John there felt _right_. Like it had been meant to be. 

After they were done and Clint had cleaned up – John had tried to help, but the PI had waved him back onto the couch because he was the guest, and Clint was the host, so it was his job – he showed John around the place. The apartment was small, but since it was just Clint there it really didn’t matter; to him, it was perfect. There was the living room, and the tiny kitchen; down the short hallway was the bathroom and the single bedroom. Clint showed John where the towels were kept, in case he wanted a shower, and then pushed the door open to the bedroom. Thank god he’d made the bed this morning, was the first thought that came to him. “You can have the bed, and I’ll take the couch.” John looked as if he wanted to argue but, since he couldn’t talk, he had to let his eyes communicate just how much he didn’t want to be putting Clint out. 

The bed was a queen, because Clint was like a starfish when he was sleeping. There was also a dresser and a chair, along with the built-in closet, the bedside table covered with his charging cords that the PI used for all his equipment. His video camera was plugged in, and he made a mental note to make sure his cellphone cord moved with him to the living room. The last thing he wanted was for his phone to lose charge in the middle of the case.

The dresser was cluttered with a couple of knickknacks and a small stack of half-finished arrows, ones he’d been building during his downtime. Plastic containers held the feathers for the fletching and the various heads he liked to use, including the flint ones he’d learned to make from the Brazilian archer he’d met at the Olympics. Tools were in their own case, this one leather, open to reveal the inside pockets where the sorts of pliers and trimmers and tiny bottles of glue peaked out.

“There are sweatshirts and sweatpants in the dresser,” he said, waving his hand toward it and ignoring John’s rather pointed look, “you can use whatever you want. I might have some jeans and shirts that will fit, too. If you’re here longer than a couple of days, we can grab you a few more things until we figure out who you are.”

John reached out and tugged on the sleeve of Clint’s leather jacket, getting him to face his guest. He couldn’t ignore those eyes any longer, so he addressed the elephant in the room, so to speak. “You’re not putting me out. Besides, you’ll feel safer in here. You can use the chair to bar the door and, if you want, I can lend you one of my throwing knives for protection. I can’t guarantee that I won’t come running if you start screaming, but barricading the door will give you enough warning that I’m on my way in that you won’t try and attack me coming out of a nightmare too fast.” He gave John a slight smile. “I know what it’s like to have nightmares like that. So, anything I can do to make you feel safe, I’m gonna do. Okay?”

John nodded, his expression painfully grateful. Clint _did_ understand, having had the childhood from as close to hell as someone could get and come out just fine on the other side, and it was all down to the Wilson family for that. They’d taken in a traumatized teenager and helped him recover from his past. Clint found himself wanting to heal this man as much as the Wilsons had healed him.

He couldn’t understand the fierce protectiveness that seemed to be growing the longer John was in his company. There were times when he thought he’d known the man forever, and it was just on the tip of his tongue to name him something besides what he’d started to call him.

Clint was staring into those blue eyes for far too long. The urge to lean over and cross the short distance between them was almost too strong, to kiss the man and claim him. 

But he couldn’t.

That would be taking advantage.

Clint had always fallen hard and fast for those he was attracted to, but there was something different here. It was that protectiveness, and the need to take care of this damaged man…it was something he’d never experienced before.

He broke the impasse with a wide grin. “Come on, let’s get ready for bed. I have a feeling it’s going to be crazy tomorrow. And maybe we’ll even hear from your family.”

John nodded, his own smile smaller but no less sincere. 

**********

“Yeah,” Clint said into the phone, scribbling on a notepad as he talked to the latest caller to answer the ad with John’s photo. “An earring? Skull and crossbones tattoo? I don’t think so.” He hung up, wishing not for the first time that he could slam down a cellphone receiver. It would have made him feel better. 

John was sitting on the couch, next to Clint’s chair, looking at him curiously. “It’s like every single crazy is coming out of the woodwork. Unless you really do have a skull and crossbones tattoo I don’t know about…?”

The man snorted inelegantly.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. You don’t look like a tattoo kinda guy, actually.”

John didn’t look insulted, so that was good.

“I _swear_,” Clint groused sarcastically, “this is _better_ than actual online dating.” And no, he wasn’t about to explain _that_, because he wanted to keep on liking Scott and that would make it impossible to do if he raked that shit up again.

The expression John gave him was classic disdain. Clint could totally get behind that.

The phone had started to ring even before Clint had managed to put on the morning coffee. It hadn’t helped that he really hadn’t slept well last night; on top of the fact that the couch wasn’t all that comfortable, John had jolted him out of a restless sleep by shouting so loudly the PI had worried that a neighbor would call the cops, thinking he was in there murdering someone. Clint had gotten to his feet immediately, practically broken down the bedroom door – and there went his security deposit, unless he got it fixed himself – and had simply held John until he’d managed to get back to sleep. Then, just before dawn, Kate from downstairs had started blasting out her “I’m getting laid” music, which was all bass line and noise and meant that her girlfriend, America, had stayed over. 

Clint knew that was exactly what that music meant, because he’d gone stomping down there one time to get her to turn it down…and had gotten an eyeful when Kate had yanked the door open and had proceeded to yell at him about how she hadn’t gotten laid in weeks and, unless he wanted to hear really loud sex noises, then he’d put up with the music.

The music was definitely the lesser of two evils.

Every single call he’d gotten that morning had been a crank. No one had managed to get a single thing right about John, which just went to show how many bastards were out there, willing to prey on someone who wouldn’t have known any better. And, it wasn’t just men. Women had been the same. It had Clint despairing of the human race.

He really wanted to rant about it, but figured John didn’t need to hear it. “Someone out there _has_ to be missing you,” he commiserated. “We’ll get the right caller eventually.” There was still Maria, and Clint _had_ called her to see if she’d gotten the photo from Bucky. Maria, in her usual brusque manner, had told him she was running it and to quit bothering her, she’d call if she got a hit. Then she’d hung up on him, which Clint didn’t take personally because that was Maria Hill in a nutshell.

John nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. He must have some memories in there somewhere, because he didn’t hesitate on taking his coffee with just a dash of milk. 

There was a knock on the door, startling Clint. He frowned as John started violently, almost sloshing his coffee out of his mug and onto the borrowed sweatshirt, but managing to keep that from happening.

He looked good in Clint’s clothes. Not that Clint would ever admit that.

The PI was up and out of his chair, wondering how good it would feel if he bitched whoever it was out. But he reined in that impulse, because it could have been someone answering the ad…although he’d specified phone calls, and hadn’t included his personal address. Not that he had an actual office; paying for a private investigator’s license had been expensive, after all, and he was perfectly capable of working from home.

Okay, yes, he was in the phone book, but all of his would-be clients so far had never equated Clint Barton the private investigator with C.F. Barton, resident of this address. He supposed there could be a first time, however.

Flinging open the door, Clint took in the man in his hallway. He was Clint’s height, handsome with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a cardigan of all things. It added more years to him so that he appeared older than the thirty-odd years Clint would have pegged him at. Khakis and a white button down completed the granddad ensemble. It made him look completely innocuous.

He was holding the morning edition of the _Gazette _in his hand, which told Clint exactly why he was there. So much for the anonymity of a phone listing.

“Mister Barton?” he inquired, with a touch of some sort of Eastern European accent.

“Who wants to know?” Clint demanded, irritated. 

“My name is Helmut Zemo, and I’m here to help.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Help with what, exactly?” Like he hadn’t already figured it out.

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but your amnesiac client problem.”

That was put so mildly, Clint almost couldn’t bring himself to bristle over the fact that his asshole had managed to track him down to his apartment, and hadn’t bothered calling _before_ making himself at home on the PI’s doorstep. Clint knew he hadn’t called beforehand, because he would have recognized that voice, it was certainly distinctive enough.

“And how do you think you can help with that?” he demanded.

“I’ll be happy to explain. Can I get a glass of water? You live up five flights and your lift appears to be out of order.”

Ugh. Really? Well, it had only been a matter of time before the elevator finally gave up the ghost, he supposed.

Grudgingly, Clint pulled the door open all the way, letting Zemo inside. The man looked around inquisitively, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the longbow hanging up over the couch. “That is a genuine 15th century longbow,” he exclaimed excitedly. “I’ll give you $50 for it right here and now.”

“It’s worth a hell of a lot more than that,” Clint growled, totally insulted by the offer. “Now, just how do you think you can help us?”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Zemo took a seat beside John, who was watching him warily. “The water, please?”

Stifling a sigh and knowing this idiot wouldn’t leave without getting a drink, Clint headed into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the drainer and filling it from the tap. If he’d wanted Zemo to be comfortable, he would have used the water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge. City water wasn’t the most pleasant thing to drink, even with the half-assed filtration system in the basement that really didn’t work all that well.

By the time he’d gotten back to the living room – and he hadn’t been gone all that long – Zemo had taken one of John’s hands, and was stroking the back of it lightly. John’s eyes were disconnected, staring into Zemo’s as if the secrets of the universe were in his gaze. “Excuse me?” he snapped. He wanted to pull the weirdo away, dump the water on his head, and kick him out, but he had no idea how John would react to that sort of violent movement.

“I’ve had experience with this sort of thing before,” Zemo answered softly.

“You some sort of shrink?” Clint challenged. 

“No, I’m a hypnotist.”

“Alright,” Clint growled, “here’s your water, and then I think you should leave.” 

He really didn’t believe in this sort of thing. Not that he’d ever had experience with being hypnotized, but he’d seen acts that purported to be mesmerists in the circus, and it never ended well. He didn’t want to put John through this sort of shit, because he honestly didn’t think it would help.

Zemo didn’t even glance up at the angry words. “People have traumatic experiences. They sometimes try to block them out…only they block out everything else as well.” He gave John a soft smile. “Now, you are relaxed. In fact, you’re so relaxed that, if I let go of your hand, it would simply float away…” he did, and on cue, John’s hand rose up as if it really was floating.

Despite himself, Clint was intrigued. He was also pissed as hell, because just who did this Zemo jerk think he was, coming into Clint’s own space and hypnotizing a traumatized person like it was the best idea in the world? He wanted to risk waking John up, but he didn’t know what trigger Zemo may have already put into place to keep that from happening. In the circus, it was always a simple finger snap, but there was no reason why Zemo would use the same method.

And all Clint had done was get the asshole a glass of water. He should have stayed in the room, to protect John from this unscrupulous bastard!

“Let’s go back, shall we?” Zemo coaxed quietly. “Let’s go back to the trauma that caused all this – “

Suddenly, John jerked as if he was being electrocuted. “Somebody help me!” he shouted, reaching for his throat. He began to gasp, like he was being physically choked, his eyes wide with terror.

Clint took a step forward, wanting nothing more than to grab John by the arms and steady him. Instead, he watched as his client gagged for a few seconds, and then his eyes cleared from the glassiness from being under the influence of hypnotism had caused, darting toward Clint automatically as if seeking his comfort, making certain he wasn’t alone. 

The PI rested a hand on John’s shoulder, trying to comfort him, his own heart trip-hammering in his chest. Sam had claimed that John could speak; that the veteran who’d been startled out of a sound sleep had claimed that John had shouted something in the throes of a nightmare, but this was the first time Clint himself had heard actual words coming from the man. Not even during his nightmare last night, John hadn’t actually spoken; sure, he’d cried out, but nothing coherent had come from his mouth. He found himself hoping to, one day, be able to hear how John sounded normally, without all the screaming.

He found himself handing the water to John, who accepted it gratefully. As he drank, Clint asked, “Is it usual for someone to break out from under like that?”

Zemo made a humming sound. “It can happen, when the events being recalled were so traumatic that the mind doesn’t want to deal with them. I think, for our next session, we should take a different approach.”

“Next time?” As far as Clint could tell, this time hadn’t exactly worked out.

“Yes.” Zemo rose. “You should come by my shop tomorrow.” He reached into a cardigan pocket, pulling out a business card. “Say…ten in the morning? I have a client coming by before then, but I can see you both after that. It may take several hours, but I really think it would help.”

He moved toward the door, reaching out for the glove that lay on the shelf next to the TV stand. He picked it up, glanced at it, then put it back, giving Clint a smile. “I shall see you both tomorrow, then,” as if their making that presumed appointment was actually going to happen.

Clint boggled slightly as he swanned off out of the apartment. “What an asshole.” He turned back to John, who was making a funny face at the water. “Yeah, I know it’s not very good but then I didn’t know I was going to be giving it to you. If I had, I’d have given you the good stuff.”

John rolled his eyes at that, sitting the glass down on the coffee table, unerringly hitting the coaster there.

The PI sank down on the couch next to his client. “Are you okay?” The reaction John had given had rattled Clint, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. “Because I don’t think I am.”

John reached over and patted his hand. His eyes were soft, and lacking some of the weight that had been in them before Zemo had arrived out of the blue.

In that moment, Clint knew they’d be going to Zemo’s shop, whatever it was, in the morning, just because of that lack of heaviness in John’s gaze.

**********

It was an antique shop.

Clint supposed that made sense, what with the man’s attempt to rip him off over his prized longbow.

_The Laughing Baron _was in a rather upscale section of the city, an area that had settled into its gentrification as if that was the way it was meant to be. There were at least two coffee shops, three clothing stores, an actual brick and mortar bookstore, an Apple store, and various other sorts of places where anyone could buy high-priced goods and services, all surrounding _The Laughing Baron _and adding a certain chic to what could have been a rundown shop with tatty crap in the windows that had were in need of a good cleaning. Clint wondered why the neighbors weren’t complaining, to be honest. The two-story structure that had the antique store in it just didn’t quite seem to fit within its surroundings.

Clint had done a little background check on Helmut Zemo before fully committing to bringing John to this place. Zemo had previously lived in some sort of little hole-in-the-wall country in Eastern Europe called Sokovia. He’d come to the US about ten years ago, when he’d opened this shop, which had become quite popular with a lot of the people in the area, especially since it seemed as if Zemo could acquire unique items for his customers. As far as Clint could tell, the man didn’t have any family in the area, but then he could only really do a cursory check with his laptop and the programs he had on it. 

Everything he’d discovered had intimated that Zemo was a simple businessman who also had a hypnosis career on the side. Nothing screamed out to Clint that the man wasn’t anything but aboveboard. So, after a one-sided discussion with John, who’d been relegated to writing down all of his answers, they’d decided to make the attempt to see just what Zemo could do to help.

When they arrived, Zemo ushered them into the back room, where a table that had to have been about two hundred years old had been set up, a candle in a silver holder in the center. Two straight-backed chairs had been tucked under the table, and he waved John into one of them. John, looking a little wary, took the offered seat, and Zemo sat opposite, a glass of water at his place. The PI snorted; the least he could have done was offer one to John as well, and to Clint. 

Clint really wasn’t sure about this. Sure, he couldn’t argue the fact that yesterday’s little hypnosis session had seemed to work in a way; John hadn’t had any nightmares last night, leaving them both to get a good night’s rest. John had seemed a little surprised by the whole thing, even going so far to ask Clint – in a slightly scrawling cursive – if he was remembering correctly not waking up in the middle of the night. The PI had reassured him that, no, there hadn’t been any screaming down the walls. John had been relieved.

And so, they were both there, ready to try and see if Zemo could, indeed, do anything.

It didn’t make Clint trust hypnosis any more than he usually did, which was not at all. And he wasn’t at all sure this wasn’t some sort of scam. However, it meant a lot to John to try, so he was going along with it.

“Now,” the man began, lighting the candle with a brass lighter, “I want you to try and relax. You’re safe here, and Mr. Barton,” he waved toward Clint, who’d taken up position leaning against one of the many shelves that lined the back room, “will keep a wary eye out.”

John’s eyes met Clint’s, and the trust in them almost took Clint’s breath away. Clint nodded, promising him silently that he wouldn’t be going anywhere, that he’d interrupt if needed.

Inhaling deeply, John slumped a little in his chair, his eyes turning to Zemo. 

“When you’re ready,” Zemo went on, “I want you to look at the candle. Keep your eyes on the flame, letting it lull you.”

John did as Zemo asked. Clint found himself wanting to do the same, but he couldn’t; he didn’t want to lose focus on what was going on around him, and that tiny flame could have been a massive distraction.

“That’s it.” The softly accented voice was calm, and quiet, and encouraging. John’s eyes slowly became unfocussed, and his eyelids drooped. “Let yourself drift away. There’s nothing but the sound of my voice. Follow it, and close your eyes.”

Clint yawned, and in surprise jerked himself upright. Damnit, he couldn’t let himself follow John down whatever rabbit hole Zemo was weaving with his words and his tone.

“Picture yourself walking down a flight of stairs. Keep relaxing as you go down, further and further, into the calm darkness around you. That’s it…keep going down. Let yourself go. You’re safe here.”

Clint was impressed. John’s expression was peaceful, and he was slumping a little more, enough so that Clint had to fight to keep himself from going over and propping his client up once more. Sure, he’d seen the same trick in the circus, but it had just been that…a trick. This, though, seemed to be an entirely different kettle of fish, so to speak. He had to grudgingly admit that it seemed to be working, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep an eye on Zemo.

“At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a closed door. I want you to walk up to it, and put your hand on the doorknob.” John’s hand actually jerked in response to that. “Now, I want you to open the door, and step through. Whatever is on the other side, you’ll be a witness; you will distance yourself from what you see there. Alright…open the door and step through.”

John’s hand twitched once more, and he seemed to tense a little, but Zemo calmed him. “Please stay as a witness. Don’t let events overwhelm you.”

John’s head drooped a little, his chin nearly resting on his chest. Clint thought if he was any more relaxed, he’d be sprawled out on the concrete floor.

“When you step through the door, you will see the happiest day of your life. Can you describe it for us?”

“It’s the day Michael and Aaron met.”

John’s voice was…well, it was gorgeous, now that it wasn’t screaming. Clint leaned forward a little, wanting to catch everything John was saying, hoping for some sort of clue. Of course, hearing that whoever he was had met a man and it was the happiest day of his life…the PI didn’t know how to react to that. There was that little, inner squee that his client appeared to be either bi or gay but, at the same time, he was bummed out that there was someone out there with the person who seemed to now be the man of his dreams. He’d been hoping once he’d discovered John’s real identity that he might have a chance…

“And when was that?” Zemo pressed calmly. “A year ago? Two years? Months?”

A small smile curled up the corner of John’s mouth. “It was 1943.”

Whoa. 

Zemo choked, taking a drink of his water to clear his throat.

Clint snorted, rolling his eyes. “Okay, this is over.”

“Mister Barton,” Zemo sighed, “I must ask you to take a step back and let me work.”

“He just said he met some guy in 1943. I’d say you’ve done enough work now.”

The shop owner looked up, his dark eyes almost unfathomable. “Sometimes current trauma is linked to a past life experience. That seems to be what we’re seeing here.”

“You really believe in that past life shit?” Clint asked incredulously.

“It’s not what I believe. It’s what our friend here believes and, at the moment, he believes he met a man back in the 1940’s.”

Okay, he supposed Zemo had a point. But, past lives…really?

He’d heard about that sort of stuff before, mostly being used to scam people out of something. He supposed Zemo could be doing the same, but he hadn’t prompted John at any time, and there wasn’t anything within view that would have influenced John into coming up with a story like this. And he was pretty sure John wasn’t scamming anyone, not with the issues he was having at the moment. Besides, he would have had to fool Sam, and Sam was notoriously hard to con. Clint hadn’t been able to get away with a single thing back when he was living with the Wilsons, and it was mostly because of his foster brother and his damned ability to see through any sort of lie Clint told.

He had to have inherited it from Mama Darlene, because she was the same way.

Zemo must have taken Clint’s silence to mean he was giving in, because he turned back to John. “And who are Michael and Aaron?”

“Captain Michael Casper, United States Army Counterintelligence,” John answered dreamily. “And Lieutenant Aaron Cross, Army sniper.”

Zemo look another drink of water. He was looking a little stunned by that answer. Clint couldn’t blame him, because he felt the same way. “And how did they meet?”

“Michael was posted to France, helping out the French Underground in their fight against the Nazis. Aaron was in the 107th, and he saved Michael’s life when a contact turned out to be a German spy, and Aaron had gone against orders to do it.” The smile grew a little wider, and a lot fonder. “Everyone was afraid of Michael. He had a reputation for being no-nonsense, hard as nails, and yet he was also fair with his men and willing to go to any lengths to make certain they would get out of any situation alive. Aaron wasn’t afraid of him, and he challenged Michael in ways no one ever had before. 

“Aaron could see Michael’s sense of humor, when so many people claimed he didn’t have one. And Michael could see that Aaron wasn’t nearly as cocky as he appeared. Aaron would laugh at Michael’s jokes and Michael would give Aaron grief for it, all the while trusting him to be able to make the shots he’d needed to. Even though they didn’t realize it until later, it was the beginning of something wonderful.”

_“Why are you laughing, Cross?”_

_“Because you’re a laugh riot, Boss.”_

_“I am not. And please keep your eye on the target.”_

_“Yessir, Captain Casper sir!”_

Zemo went on, asking questions, and John answering. Clint learned that Michael had requested Aaron be transferred into his intelligence unit, and how Aaron used his sniper skills to always watch Michael’s back when he was on assignment. How they worked together near seamlessly, and when their success rate went through the proverbial roof, they were given more and more difficult missions, ones that no one thought would succeed without their two best agents on the case. No one could do what Michael Casper and Aaron Cross could, and they both rose through the ranks of the intelligence community, becoming respected and always in demand. 

“And then, one day,” John continued, “Michael realized that the friendship he’d had with Aaron had turned into something more. He couldn’t say anything, because not only were his feelings were illegal, he was certain they wouldn’t be reciprocated. He wasn’t about to risk being kicked out of the Army since that would mean he would be leaving Aaron behind without him there to watch his back. They were too good a team, but the top brass wouldn’t keep a homosexual no matter how good he was at his job and how effective the pair were together. He’d fought so hard to hide that part of himself, and Aaron’s very presence was threatening to bring that out in the open.

“Michael, though, was as tough as his reputation, and he kept his emotions buried, no one guessing he was in love with his best friend. So, for two years he struggled to keep his feelings to himself. He believed he’d succeeded, until the day the war ended.

“That was when Aaron told him that he felt the same way.”

_“I know it’s not much, but since we can’t give each other real rings…”_

_“It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.”_

_“It’s just a bit of hand-chipped obsidian…”_

_“No, it’s a promise.”_

_“You’re about the only one who understands.”_

_“I know what arrowheads mean to you. You couldn’t have given me anything better, anything that’s completely _you_.”_

_“Then…will you accept this arrowhead as my promise to you, to love you until the end of my days, and beyond?”_

_“Yes, I will.”_

Clint found himself mesmerized by the story that John was weaving. Of a forbidden love, one that could have gotten either man, at the very least, a lengthy prison term. He could almost understand it; if he’d come out as gay back when he’d been a kid in the circus, it would have earned him a beating, or much worse. It had only been once he’d found himself trusting Darlene Wilson that he’d admitted his own proclivities. The entire Wilson family had accepted him as he was, and had even encouraged him to find some sort of happiness with whoever he chose to love.

He would always be grateful to them…even if Mama Darlene was always insisting on trying to set him up with “nice boys” in an effort to get him settled into a life of domestic bliss, and maybe then he could adopt some babies for her to spoil. In a sure sign that she considered Clint true family, her attempts with him matched the attempts she’d made with Sam and the rest of the Wilson kids, especially when the subject of grandbabies came up. She hadn’t been all that successful with Sam, not yet anyway, but with the others she was currently batting a thousand and had the grandkids to prove it.

There were days when he had no idea what he’d done to earn such a family. It must have been something pretty wild.

A very tiny part of him wished that the man sitting at that table, spinning a yarn about a love that might never have been requited if one of the two hadn’t taken a chance, was the one he would, one day, take home to meet Mama Darlene and the rest of the family. He’d only known John for a little less than a day, but there was something about the man that was drawing Clint to him, like a moth to a flame. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to find out.

“Now,” Zemo murmured, “I want you to come back. You’ll feel refreshed, and calm, and you’ll remember everything we talked about. On the count of three…one…two…three.”

John’s eyes fluttered open, and he sighed. He sat up straight in the chair, smiling as he straightened the t-shirt Clint had let him borrow. 

“Look,” Clint finally couldn’t keep quiet any longer, “while that was a really great story, I’m not sure how it helps.”

“These things take time,” Zemo replied. “We can –”

“May I…have a glass of water?”

Clint’s head snapped around, the happy grin spreading across his face. “Your voice is back,” he exclaimed. It was a little rusty from overuse, since John had been talking for a couple of hours, but it still sounded wonderful.

“Of course you can,” Zemo agreed, bustling out of the room and deeper into the building.

Clint took the chair that Zemo had abandoned, pulling it around the table so he could sit next to John. “Do you remember who you are?” he asked. “Your name or anything?”

“No,” John sighed. “Just what I said under hypnosis.” He cocked his head. “Do you think any of that really happened?”

“I don’t know,” Clint admitted, even though he really wanted to deny it all because it was just too weird. “But I think we might want to get a second opinion.”

**********

“Past lives?” Sam mused, leaning back in his chair, his eyes considering. “I’m not sure how I feel about that sort of thing, to be honest.”

They’d arrived at Stark House just after lunchtime, but neither man had wanted to stop to get anything before talking to Sam. John was curious to know more about hypnosis and the idea of having a past life; while Clint still thought a lot of it was a bunch of hokum. Sam would most likely be the tie breaker here, so Clint was perfectly willing to listen to what his foster brother had to say.

John had taken the only other chair, leaving the couch to Clint, who sat with his elbows on his knees, keeping an eye on John’s reactions and Sam’s responses. Sam had grinned like a maniac when John had thanked him solemnly for taking him in and then asking Clint to help him find out who he was, and that he had hope that it would happen eventually. Sam had nodded, said that his brother was a good guy who’d do anything in his power to figure things out, and then had asked what he could do for him.

Sam had listened attentively as John had explained the hypnosis session and what he’d discovered about those past lives while under. Sam had nodded in the appropriate places and, when John was done, had gotten that look on his face that told Clint he was seriously considering everything that had been said.

“I’ve read plenty about the phenomena,” Sam went on. “It apparently happens more than you would think. There’s the story of one of the vets at the VA, who came home with severe claustrophobia when he’d been fine before he’d been injured in a firefight while over in Iraq. One of the psychiatrists there used hypnosis and it came out that, when the soldier was younger, his cousin would think it was funny to lock him in the hall closet. At the time, the doctor believed that the trauma of battle had, somehow, activated that old abuse; the problem was, bringing that to light didn’t solve the problem. So, back under hypnosis he went, and this time he claimed that he’d had a past life going back to the 1850’s when he was buried alive because he’d got some sort of illness and everyone had thought he was dead. Once he admitted that, the claustrophobia was gone. The doctor was at a loss to explain it.”

Clint shuddered at the story, feeling just a little bit sick. Who came up with that sort of shit? Being buried alive…_fuck_.

“So you think there’s such a thing as past lives?” John inquired, looking a little ill himself.

“The mind is a mysterious place. We still don’t know all that much about how it works, or copes with trauma. Take your own case…something traumatic happened, and suddenly you couldn’t recall who you were and couldn’t even speak. It says something that, whatever this hypnotist guy uncovered, actually helped you regain your voice.”

Clint found himself piping up. “I’ll be honest…I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing, and it almost always was a scam. So, while it was a pretty story and John, here, is talking again, I’m just not so sure about it.”

John didn’t look insulted by Clint’s skepticism, which was a good thing. In fact, he looked curious, and the PI thought he might be finding himself explaining himself later on.

He really didn’t discuss his circus years with anyone, but he thought he might actually be able to with this man who’d come into his life under such weird circumstances. And who, Clint was willing to admit to himself, he was really hoping would stick around after they found out the truth of John’s life and identity.

“Yeah, I can see why that would be.” Of course, Sam knew all about that point in Clint’s life, and would understand the rather oblique reference. “Like I said, I’ve read some stuff, and I heard about that case at the VA. I can’t say whether past lives actually exist, or our brains just do something weird when it comes to trauma that has it just creating something out of a combination of imagination and memory, but there are a lot of people who do believe it in. Besides, I can’t argue with the results. Our new friend here has gotten his voice back. Maybe, if you decided to go back, hypnosis guy might be able to bring more than that back after the next session.”

“I thought for sure you’d be telling us to steer clear,” Clint replied.

“Well, normally I would. Anyone who messes with the human mind without the education to back it up is nothing more than a quack in my book. But, Clint…I know you’ll be monitoring. And I’m going to have to insist that you both come back here after each session, just so I can make sure nothing untoward was done to damage your psyche any further, John.”

Sam had been amused to learn that Clint had started calling the man ‘John’, but hadn’t said anything against giving him a name, if just for convenience’s sake. 

“I can agree with that,” John allowed. “But I’d really like to give it another try.” He smiled slightly. “If only to find out what happened to Michael and Aaron.”

“I have to admit that I’m curious, too.” Clint had been touched by the story, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Sure, there was his own certain knowledge that, admitting to being gay in the circus would have gotten the shit beat out of him. However, the plight of those two other men – even if they were imaginary – had touched something within him, and he wanted to know what they’d gone through.

“Then keep doing it,” Sam said, “but be careful. It _could_ be some sort of scam…not that Clint hadn’t already thought of that.” He smiled at his brother, taking any sort of sting out of the words.

Not that there were any, because Sam was one hundred percent correct. Clint wanted to think that Zemo was helping, but he still held a healthy amount of suspicion over the man’s methods.

“That’s why I rely on Clint,” John said, his own smile in place, this one smaller but very sincere. “I know he has my best interests at heart.”

He had no idea how he’d actually earned that sort of trust from anyone so quickly, but it didn’t stop Clint from basking in the glow of it for a bit. 

**********

Leaving Stark House, Clint suggested food. John agreed; they hadn’t really eaten anything since breakfast, and the PI’s stomach was pissed off at him about it. “How about Chinese?” he asked, once his car was out into traffic and heading back toward his apartment. “Do you even like Chinese? Oh, wait…you probably don’t remember that.”

John chuckled. “No, I’m afraid not, but at this point I’m willing to eat anything.”

“There’s a great little place by my building. Let’s stop there.”

The _Lucky Dragon _was one of Clint’s regular haunts, and the family that owned the restaurant knew him by sight. Mrs. Li bustled forward as they walked in the door, smiling happily and ushering them toward a free table. “Your usual beer?” she asked brightly.

“Perfect, Mrs. Li. And the same for my friend.”

“I’ll be back with your drinks in a minute.” She squeezed Clint’s shoulder, gave John a once-over – she must have seen something that she approved of, because she patted his shoulder as well, then left for the kitchens.

The restaurant wasn’t that busy at the moment, but then, they were somewhere between lunch and dinner, and hardly anyone ate at that time of the day. _The Lucky Dragon _was almost what could be called a hole-in-the-wall, but it was clean, and the food was amazing in Clint’s opinion. The table they were seated at had a Formica top, chrome napkin holder in the center, next to a bowl holding all sorts of packets of condiments. There were the sort of Chinese lamps hanging from the ceiling that were part and parcel of any Chinese restaurant anywhere, the décor decidedly cliché, aimed toward whatever tourists that could be had in this residential area…which was none, really. But the people living around had discovered the restaurant and had adopted the Li’s into their collective hearts.

“You are gonna love the food here,” Clint gushed.

John was glancing at the menu. “I suppose I’d better decide on what I want…not that any of it really makes any sense to me.” He frowned slightly. “It’s so strange…I know my right hand from my left, but I don’t know what I like to eat.”

“Well, we can get a little bit of everything and you can try stuff,” the PI suggested.

Nodding, John closed the menu and set it back in the hook that was on the side of the napkin holder. “That sounds good. I’ll leave it in your hands.”

Clint’s chest warmed a little at the confidence John was putting in him, even if it was only choosing food. 

Mrs. Li came back over with their beers. Setting them down, she turned her smile back on Clint, and then John. “And what can I get you and your date, Clint?”

“Um…” Clint didn’t know what to say about that, as Mrs. Li’s comment had taken him by surprise. John was his client, no matter what Clint may have privately wanted, and while he felt the need to correct her, he just couldn’t get the words out to do just that.

Before he could make any sort of comeback, John was answering, “I’ve actually never had Chinese before, so Clint is going to choose for me.”

That seemed to delight the elderly Chinese woman. “How sweet!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in sheer joy. 

Clint got his head back in the game, and ordered several combination platters, choosing different sorts of dishes as well as more fried rice than really was strictly necessary. Mrs. Li’s delight ramped up toward infinity as she took the order, then scurried back to the kitchens to make all the food he’d just requested. Most likely with her own hands, with some help from her son, who really was the official cook.

John’s eyebrows were raised. “I get the feeling that was enough food to feed an army.”

Clint shrugged. “We can take what’s left back to my place for leftovers.” He didn’t say that he usually ordered more than he could possibly eat in one sitting, just so he could have cold Chinese the next day.

Or the next several days, depending on how much Mrs. Li added to his order.

While they waited, they chatted. John asked most of the questions, since he couldn’t really share his own life as he didn’t recall it, but he listened raptly as Clint told stories about his life with the Wilsons, his friends, and interesting cases he’d taken on. He even shared tales of his time in the circus, and how he got there. The sympathy in John’s eyes when he explained about his drunkard of a father and how he’d killed himself and Clint’s Mom by slamming their car into a tree, and how Barney had abandoned him, had him reaching across the table to take John’s hand in gratitude. John let their fingers tangle together, smiling warmly at the touch.

They simply looked at one another, Clint’s stories petering out in the face of that comforting hand clasp. His heartbeat began to thump harder against his ribs, and the urge to lean across the table and kiss John was almost unbearable.

But John was a client. He didn’t know who he was. It felt a little like Clint would be taking advantage. He pulled his hand away, expecting John to look hurt; instead, he nodded slightly, his eyes knowing and kind. He understood why Clint wouldn’t take anything further, despite his burgeoning feelings for the other man.

There was also a promise in John’s eyes. A promise to wait, and see what would happen next, until he had all the answers he needed and could make an informed decision to pursue a relationship with Clint.

Clint made the same, silent, promise.

The thing was, Clint knew he had a tendency to fall hard, and fast. See any of his exes for confirmation. This, however, felt different. It was as if he’d known John for years, even though he knew absolutely nothing about the man, other than he needed help. Clint didn’t do this with clients, he didn’t fall for them. He did the jobs they hired him for, then issued his invoices for services rendered…and not that sort of service, thank you very much. Clint had a hard and fast rule about getting involved with clients, and he always kept that one rule above any others he might have. 

Though, all bets were off once the case was over, and John remembered who he was, if he was still interested.

Clint really hoped he would be.

**********

They’d had another uninterrupted night of sleep, whatever good that hypnosis session had done had carried over into a nightmare-less rest.

It hadn’t meant that Kate downstairs hadn’t made some noise. Clint was damned glad for the loud music; he wouldn’t have been able to handle the sex sounds. Not as wired up as he was feeling, with John sleeping in his bed and wearing his clothes. It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was.

He’d also put in a call to Steve at the VA. If anyone could find out of Captain Michael Casper and Lieutenant Aaron Cross were real, it would have been Steve, with all the computerized resources at his disposal. Clint wasn’t at all sure what John had said under hypnosis was real, but this would do double-duty, in that it would either prove that Zemo knew what he was talking about…or was a scam artist playing into John’s imagination and trauma. The PI had a feeling that, no matter what it was, it would go a long way to settling John and helping him deal with whatever the hell was happening to him.

The closer it got to leaving that morning for their next session with Zemo, the more animated John became. After yesterday, he had hope that things would only get better, and wasn’t afraid to tell Clint that. Clint wasn’t so sure, but he wasn’t about to rain all over John’s parade, so to speak. Hope was important to recovery; Sam had taught him that.

They were leaving the apartment building when things went to hell.

“Richard!” the voice called out they arrived at Clint’s car. 

At first, they both ignored it. It could have been anyone, shouting for a complete stranger, but it became evident that it wasn’t when the handsome, younger man got closer, dodging a car as he crossed the street.

Clint took a step toward him, keeping his back to the car, wishing he had some sort of weapon with him. John, frowning, came around from the other side of the vehicle, joining Clint, standing close enough that the PI could feel his body heat through the hoodie he’d let the other man borrow. 

“Excuse me,” Clint put himself firmly between the approaching stranger and John, “how can we help you?”

The man, who must have been in his late twenties, early thirties, came to a sudden halt, dark eyes darting between the PI and his client. He was dressed in well-pressed black trousers and a button-down in a heather grey, his dark hair clipped close to his head and his cheekbones would have cut steel, they were that sharp. He was a bit taller than Clint, and it was obvious he worked out, but Clint was fairly confident he could take the guy if things got out of control.

“I’m here because of the ad,” he waved a folded-up newspaper in Clint’s face. 

“And you couldn’t just call?” He was really going to have to be better at hiding his personal information, because Clint was getting tired of people just dropping in without any warning.

The guy managed to look a little chagrined. “Sorry, but when I saw the picture…” He craned his head around, so he could see John fully. A relieved smile crossed that handsome face. “Richard, I know you don’t remember me…”

John stepped out from behind Clint, his own face puzzled. “No, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” the man said, only it didn’t look that way to Clint; in fact, he was obviously crestfallen. 

“I’m sorry,” Clint cut in, “but who the hell are you?”

“I’m Grant. Grant Ward. Richard and I have been seeing each other for about six months now.” Grant Ward reached forward with this empty hand, taking John’s. “I was going to ask him to marry me the day he vanished.”

John was shaking his head, as if it was just a bit much to take in. “You know me?”

“Yeah. Your name is Richard Campbell. You’re an accountant.” Ward moved forward a little more, practically crowding into John’s personal space. Clint wanted to snap at him to back off, but if this asshole really knew who John was…

He felt something within him crack. If John really _was_ this Richard Campbell, then he already had someone he was with, someone who was better looking than Clint himself was, and also younger. He’d hoped that, after the case was over, the two of them might explore what was obviously a mutual attraction, but there was no way Clint was going to break up a couple who’d apparently been close enough that there was marriage talk involved. 

That was just the story of his life, wasn’t it?

Ward’s hand had moved, to caress John’s cheek. No, Richard. Richard Campbell. 

Clint narrowed his eyes. Jealousy flared hot and green within his chest. He didn’t want to let John go, no matter the truth of who he was. But, at the same time, he knew he couldn’t stand in the way of John’s happiness, whether that came from the horribly good-looking man standing there in the street, or with Clint himself. 

It was always going to be a risk; that John would discover his true identity and it wouldn’t be involving Clint. It sucked, but it was life, and Clint had enough shitty luck that he really should have expected something like this.

“I really don’t know you.” John sounded lost, not sure of his footing in this new situation.

“Can you prove you know him?” Clint challenged, needing to be certain before he let John out of his sight…quite possibly for the last time.

“This was dropped outside our front door.” Reaching into his pocket, Ward pulled out a glove that looked very much like the single glove that John had been carrying. “I kept telling the doctor that the new medication was a mistake, but he wouldn’t listen since Richard and I aren’t married or anything.”

“Medication?” John asked as Clint took the glove in fingers that absolutely did _not_ tremble. It was the same black leather as the glove currently in his living room, sitting on the shelf near the television. He felt his heart sink even lower.

“For the insomnia,” Ward answered. “Dalmane. It was doing weird things, and there was one blackout that I know of.” He turned back to John. “When you didn’t show up at our place the other night…I tried to make out a missing person’s report, but I was told that it had to be 48 hours before I could do anything. Hell, it was damned lucky I happened to see the newspaper! God, Richard…I was so fucking worried. Thank God you’re alright!” 

Before anyone could react, Ward had leaned over and pressed his lips against John’s. John stiffened, and it was all Clint could do not to reach over and drag him away. He wanted to yell, to say that no, John wasn’t alright, that he couldn’t remember anything about his life, and to give the man some space to deal with what he’d just learned, not jump him like that!

Clint remained silent, however. He didn’t have any right to put himself between John and the man who was apparently his would-be fiancé; he was just the man who’d tried to find John’s family, and who’d gotten his hopes up that there might be some sort of relationship for them once John had all his memories back.

Ward pulled back, leaving John looking even more lost and confused. “Sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have done that, not with you not remembering me…”

“No,” John – Richard – argued. “It’s fine.” That was a lie if Clint had ever heard one. “I…suppose it’s time to go home, then.” His tone made him sound as if he was really uncertain about that. 

“I have your things up at my place,” Clint said, going for saving the situation and failing completely at making it less awkward than it was.

“Please,” Ward cut in, “let me pay you for your time…” He reached toward his trouser pocket.

“Nah.” Clint couldn’t accept; not with his heart breaking the way it was. He was surprised at the depth of pain he was feeling. He really _had_ fallen hard for John, in just the couple of days he’d known the man, and he’d hoped…oh, how he’d _hoped_. 

There was also a part of him that had wanted to find out more about this past life thing. Sure, he might not have necessarily believed in that shit, but it was fascinating all the same. It had resonated, the same way John had resonated with _him_, slotting into his life in a way he shouldn’t have been able to, not in the short amount of time they’d been acquainted. Clint was a love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy, because he’d long ago learned that he fell for people he shouldn’t be falling for, and he hated people in his space and touching his things…

But John had done just that, and Clint hadn’t minded. In fact, he’d _liked_ it. Even if the nightmare quotient in his apartment had gone up drastically since John had come to stay, he was having a really hard time even considering going back to living alone.

Damn, he was totally _fucked_.

And he was about to lose it all.

In the end, though, he just wanted John to be happy. If being with the ambulatory Ken doll was that, then Clint would be happy for him. 

“You have to let us reimburse you for your time,” John urged. His eyes were conflicted, as if he knew what he had to do but didn’t want to do it. 

Maybe that gave Clint just a little hope that things would be okay, in the end.

He waved the offer away. “Just be happy, okay? That’ll be the best way to repay me.”

John nodded. He held out his hand. “Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Barton.”

Ouch. Last names. That hurt like a knife to the chest…or, how he would imagine a knife to the chest would feel, all agony and being unable to breathe and horrific loss.

Despite that pain, Clint accepted the handshake, wanting to imprint how John’s hand felt in his one last time. “I’ll just go and get your clothes. You can wait right here, if you want.”

“That’s fine.” 

God, John’s eyes were so blue, and there was pain and sorrow in them. It made Clint want to reach out and hug him but, with Ward standing there, one arm around the other man, he barely managed to keep himself from doing just that. 

Turning his back on that scene, Clint headed back up the steps toward the front door, fingers worrying the glove that Ward had handed him. He glanced down at it, his steps slowing as he realized something was wrong…

Oh, God.

He stopped in his tracks, spinning on the step, glaring out at Grant Ward, who was looking very smug. “Oh, that was such a nice touch,” he growled angrily.

John’s eyes widened in surprise at Clint’s outburst. Before he could say anything, though, Clint went on, letting his rage out in the sharpness of his words, spitting them like needles at the man who had his arm on John.

“The glove,” he held it up, “a very nice touch. There’s just one problem.” He held it up. “It’s for the wrong hand.”

It was a left-handed glove.

Just like the one sitting on the shelf up in Clint’s apartment.

Ward had gotten _that_ _close_…

He had a ringside seat for what occurred next.

Although, to be honest, it all happened so fast he wasn’t at all sure _exactly_ what he _did_ see.

John was almost a blur as he slipped easily out of Ward’s grasp. In a flurry of movement, he grabbed a hand and threw Ward to the ground, face first, landing on the asshole’s back and twisting the arm up and backward in what had to have been an agonizing position. 

Clint was incredibly turned on.

He was also scared and relieved in equal measure. Scared that a complete stranger had tried to take John away from him; and relieved that it hadn’t worked. That he’d taken a second look at that glove, and figured out that something wasn’t right. He wanted to sit down on the steps and shake a little, but John was kneeling on the bad guy, who was doing his best to get out of the hold and failing miserably.

Where on Earth had John learned those sorts of badass moves?

“Clint, can you please call the police?” John sounded as if he did this sort of thing every day. Maybe he did. How would they know?

Taking the suggestion to heart, Clint pulled out his cell and speed-dialed Maria down at the precinct.

Oh, she was gonna just _love_ this…

**********

They were late getting to Zemo’s shop, but Clint thought they’d be forgiven for it.

Maria had showed up with her partner, Jasper Sitwell, in a blaze of righteous indignation, as if Clint had done all this on purpose. He hadn’t, but he was used to that from her since, although they were friends, she looked down her nose at private investigators just on general principle and him in particular. It dated back to a case that Clint had claimed to have been a crime when Maria had been certain it was an accident…and Clint had been proved right. Maria Hill just hated to feel grateful to anyone. She still had that particular chip on her shoulder, and it carried over to everyone bring a PI. 

Maria and Sitwell swooped in, handcuffed Grant Ward, and tossed him unceremoniously into the back of their car because, as much as Maria hated private investigators, she hated abusers more. And she was seriously considering the bastard as an abuser, taking advantage of someone who didn’t know better due to some sort of impediment, and amnesia certainly qualified. She outlined to John exactly what Ward could be charged with, up to and including attempted kidnapping. John, with the glint of unholy glee in his eyes, said he would gladly press any and all charges Maria could come up with. 

She looked inordinately pleased with that news.

Making a promise to come by the precinct to make a full statement later, both Clint and John headed off to their appointment with Helmut Zemo, each of them wanting to get more information, no matter what came out during hypnosis. 

If Clint was being honest, he kinda wanted to know what _would_ come out. Maybe he didn’t believe in what Zemo was doing, and that John’s ‘memories’ were something his traumatized brain was coming up with in order to deal with whatever had happened to him. Maybe John was some sort of fantasy writer or something like that, and it had been the plot of a book he was writing. That didn’t stop him from being curious about Michael and Aaron and their forbidden love and spy hijinks.

Once they’d explained why they were late, Zemo was just fine with their tardiness. In fact, he seemed just as upset about what had occurred as John and Clint were, and he bustled around and fetched them tea and cookies and made sure they were both fine. Clint was a little surprised by it, since they really didn’t know the man all that well, but he figured it was more to do with him being as curious about this whole past life stuff as Clint was.

“In the light of today’s events,” Zemo began, once again sitting across the table from John, the candle between them, “I believe we should move things along a little.” He leaned forward. “Why don’t we start with when things started to go badly for Michael and Aaron? Remember: you’re simply a witness to events. Tell me what you see.”

Clint frowned. What the hell? What was Zemo talking about? When things had started going wrong? Who said something had gone wrong? He didn’t recall hearing anything about that shit.

John, his voice soft and dream-like, answered, “When Aaron met Natalia.”

Okay, then…but he was gonna be asking some questions when this session was over. Because Zemo _knew_ something, or else he’d made a really accurate guess with the same information that Clint had, and Clint hadn’t made that sort of leap in logic.

“When did this happen?”

“In 1948. Michael and Aaron had been posted Stateside after the war, and had taken a small apartment together in Washington, DC. They were almost as busy then as during the war; the Soviet Union was growing stronger, and there were concerns that they would be the next big threat against world peace. There were also rumors that there were Soviet agents buried within the government, and Michael and Aaron had been ordered to find out who they were and neutralize them before they passed on too many secrets to the GRU. Michael thought they were getting close; and then, Aaron met Natalia at a party…

“It was one of those boring DC parties, where everyone attending was connected with the government in some way. Michael and Aaron weren’t there for enjoyment; they were hoping to meet an agent who’d been placed within the Soviet Attaché’s Office, who thought he’d managed to get some sort of lead on the spy ring operating out of the various government agencies. Michael had almost immediately gotten cornered by Alexander Pierce, the Director of the newly chartered Central Intelligence Agency; Pierce had been the one to headhunt both of them after the war, impressed with their mission successes. There were rumors that Michael was on his way up in the agency, was being eyed for a Senior Analyst’s position that would take him out of the field. Michael had shrugged the rumors off, he wasn’t about to leave Aaron behind, not when they made such an effective team. Nor would he trust anyone else to watch Aaron’s back on assignments.

“That had left Aaron to his own devices. He’d been standing at the bar almost all night, nursing a drink and completely bored with the whole thing. That was before he was approached by the woman in the green dress, her red hair hanging in ringlets across her bare shoulders, looking at him as if she wanted to eat him alive.

“Even though he wasn’t at all tempted, Aaron had to play the part, or else run the risk of stories being told out of turn. He offered to buy her a drink, which she accepted, and then introduced herself as Natalie Rushman.”

_“You look as bored as I feel.”_

_“A classy dame like you? Bored at a party like this? I would have thought you’d have guys tripping all over themselves to dance with you.”_

_“Perhaps. But there’s no one here I’d trip over myself to dance with.”_

“It wasn’t until the next day that she was identified as Natalia Romanova, a scion of the former Imperial family and currently an agent of the GRU codenamed Black Widow.”

Clint leaned forward from his usual vantage point by the shelves, listening as John wove his words into a story, one that Clint could almost swear he could translate into pictures. He could imagine Natalia Romanova quite easily: a small woman, yet deadly as a cobra, flirting with Aaron at the bar, even as she was scoping out the party for any secrets she could gain. 

_“Believe me, if I didn’t have to be here…”_

_“Exactly. Parties like this are made for schmoosing and making business contacts. If that’s not something you’re here to do, then it would be deadly dull.”_

_“You’re not wrong there. And just why are you here, if that isn’t what you’re doing?”_

_“My boss insisted. He’s kind of a hard ass about seeing and being seen in places where people will notice. And you?”_

_“I had a date; however, he turned out to be as boring as the party.”_

If it had been here, in this time, then Michael and Aaron could have made it known they were together. They could have shared dances, held hands, made it obvious that they were a couple. Back in the forties, though, they would have had to pretend to just be friends and partners, and that meant spending time apart at official gatherings. 

Clint wondered how either man had felt about that. But they wouldn’t have wanted to put the other in danger, if they’d loved each other as much as John was making it seem. And so, they would have had to play their parts perfectly, and not let on that they had more than just a professional friendship.

Damnit, that sucked big green donkey dicks.

“Word got around pretty quickly that the Black Widow had been at the party, and it caused an uproar. Everyone wanted to locate her, but it was Aaron who ran into her once more…at his and Michael’s favorite diner.

“After that, she seemed to be everywhere. It was obvious that she knew exactly who Aaron was, and who he worked for, but she never asked him a single question about missions or any of the agents that Aaron knew. 

“Despite his certainty that she was up to something, the two of them became friends.”

_“I miss the war.”_

_“Why do you say that, Nat?”_

_“During war, your enemies were apparent, and your friends were allies. Now…the Soviet has gone from being America’s ally to its enemy, and vice versa. I do not like being enemies with you, Aaron.”_

_“Me neither. I don’t think we should be, really.”_

_“If my employers find out, it could be dangerous for both of us.”_

_“If we’re as good as all that, they won’t.”_

“They managed to keep their friendship a secret for months,” John continued, sighing. “Aaron was certain Natalia had ulterior motives, just not spying ones. She was saying things that was leading him to believe that she wanted to defect. He wanted to help her do that.”

_“Let me bring Michael Casper into this. He has the pull necessary to get you protection.”_

_“Aaron, there will be no protection for me, if I leave the Soviet.”_

_“You can’t stay somewhere where you’re patently unhappy!”_

_“We all must do things that make us unhappy…as you well know.”_

_“Wait…what do you mean?”_

_“You know exactly what I mean.”_

Clint couldn’t help the shiver that wracked him. Had this Natalia person somehow figured out about Michael and Aaron? He wanted to ask, but he held his tongue; Zemo seemed to know what he was doing, when he asked the exact same question.

“Aaron thought so. But she wasn’t doing anything to expose either of them, so he let it alone…which might have been a mistake…”

_“I have intelligence reporting that you’ve been spending time with a Soviet agent.”_

_“What?”_

_“Aaron, please…don’t bother to deny it. I managed to get a hold of the photos that were taken of your last meeting.”_

_“Michael, they aren’t telling the entire story…”_

“When Michael discovered what Aaron was doing, he was livid. They had a blazing row about it, in the privacy of their own home, away from prying eyes and ears. Michael didn’t want to think that Aaron was betraying him, or their country, but he couldn’t deny the evidence he’d seen.”

_“How can you think that of me? I thought you trusted me!”_

_“I do! But you need to explain this to me! If Romanova is somehow leading you on…”_

_“Natalia isn’t like that!”_

_“How do you know? The Black Widow is the deadliest, most dangerous, agent the GRU has. She can wrap a man around her little finger and he wouldn’t even know she was doing it.”_

_“I know what I’m doing. This isn’t like that mess with Loki –”_

_“You need to stop, Aaron. Please.”_

“But Aaron didn’t. He kept up his friendship with Natalia, and it caused a rift between the lovers that seemed insurmountable…”

The agony on John’s face matched what Clint was feeling. How could Aaron do that? Take up with a spy and risk everything with the man he loved?

It seemed as if Zemo wasn’t going to pursue it any further, because he brought John up out of hypnosis with a word and a snap of his fingers. John blinked, a glassiness in his gaze that said he was close to tearing up, and Clint couldn’t blame him. 

Despite his original doubting of the efficacy of hypnosis, he was now very interested in what was going to happen next. He couldn’t help himself. The story was like a drug, something that Clint needed, and if he didn’t get more…he shook himself. No, this wasn’t about him. This was about John and how, every time, he seemed just that much more settled into his own skin. He might not know his name, or where he came from, but telling this tale was giving him peace of mind, as if the words were just waiting for the right impetus to come out. 

John took a drink of water, ducking his head a little, hiding his bright, blue eyes. Clint knew why; he was embarrassed by feeling the way he was, about two men who were either figments of his imagination, or part of a life that had ended decades ago.

Clint wasn’t sure which one he preferred anymore.

**********

“Hey, Steve. Come on in.”

Steve Rogers was a tall, muscular man who, according to Bucky, had once been a ninety-pound weakling who’d gone around picking fights with bullies; who’d worked hard in the Army at building his strength and endurance up to peak levels. Clint wouldn’t have believed it, if he hadn’t seen the pictures of when the pair had been boys. He hadn’t even recognized his friend in those photos until Bucky had said something.

Steve was also an old-fashioned kinda guy, wearing khakis that were still well-pressed despite the fact that he’d been at work all day. His dress shirt was a pale blue, and was just as neat as his trousers. His shoes were shined to within an inch of their lives.

He was carrying a rather bulky folder. Clint chose not to think of it as ominous.

Steve stepped into the apartment, glancing around even though he’d been in Clint’s space before…it just hadn’t been in a while, what with the PI’s inclination to keep people out. “We got food,” he offered, glad he’d gotten his usual triple order of everything. He and John had stopped for fried chicken on their way back from Zemo’s shop, and there was plenty.

“Oh, no thanks,” Steve answered, smiling. “Bucky says he’s cooking tonight.”

Bucky was an excellent cook, so he could understand why Steve was willing to give up fast food fried chicken for whatever his lover was making. 

John was seated on the couch, paper plate balanced on his lap, it overflowing with chicken, potatoes, and macaroni and cheese. He went to set the plate down so he could stand, but Steve waved him back down. “You must be John,” the former Army captain said warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Steve,” Clint introduced. 

“I saw a picture of you on Bucky’s desk at the newspaper,” John replied. 

“Yep, I’m his.” Steve was always saying stuff like that, and it was incredibly cute.

“Have a seat,” Clint invited. “Can I at least get you a beer or something?”

“Sure, beer’s great.” He took the chair next to the couch, setting his file down on the coffee table.

Clint was back with the beer in a flash, curiosity eating at him about just what Steve had found. He’d been searching for something on either of the men John had mentioned under hypnosis; working for the Veterans Administration gave Steve access to military records that weren’t publicly available. He could have turned Clint down, but Steve was a do-gooder down to his very bones, and wouldn’t ever pass up the chance to help someone in need.

He handed the beer to his friend, then took a seat next to John. His own plate had been set on the coffee table, and he grabbed it back up, if just to get it out of Steve’s way of whatever presentation he was about to give.

“I take it you found something.” Clint didn’t know whether he should be glad, or scared shitless.

“I did.” Steve took a swig of his beer, then sat the bottle down on the coaster that was on the coffee table. Clint may have been a borderline slob at times, but he hated getting rings on his furniture. He pulled the folder in front of him, flipping the cover open. “When you asked me to find these two for you, I had no idea…it’s best to just show you.” He pulled a black and white photo out of the stack of papers, handing it across to Clint. 

He accepted the photo, staring at it. There were two men in it: one, older, with a receding hairline and kind eyes, wearing an old-fashioned Army uniform with the cap under one arm. The other, was younger, with a regulation military haircut and a cheeky smile, his own uniform a little less pristine than his companions, a single glove on his left hand and a rifle slung over one shoulder by its strap. 

Clint stopped breathing. He heard John gasp beside him, knowing that he was seeing just what Clint was seeing.

The two men could have been the doubles of John and Clint, himself.

It was creepy, the resemblance. Clint felt John shiver beside him, and couldn’t help but follow his example. When they’d started with this whole story, he’d had no idea it would lead to this…this obvious connection between the two men, and to himself and John. It was really the final nail in the coffin of his skepticism in the idea of reincarnation, because it seemed the truth of it was now held in his hand, in the shape of a photograph taken back in the 1940’s.

“Captain Michael Casper and Lieutenant Aaron Cross,” Steve said into the stunned silence. “Both were in Army Counterintelligence during World War Two; they were pretty much heroes, if the records are correct, even though there was never any outright recognition for their deeds. It didn’t start out that way for Cross, however; he was nearly drummed out of the Army for disobeying a direct order from his commander, although that was how he managed to save Casper’s life. Casper went to his superiors, and got Cross assigned to his team, taking him out of the line of fire, so to speak. They worked together throughout the rest of the war, and then they were hired in by the CIA, which was just being formed at the time. A lot of those records are beyond my pay grade; I can’t get to them, even though it’s past the time they were declassified. But there’s this…” He pulled another form from the file, passing it along.

“What the fuck is this?” Clint demanded, his eyes darting across the page.

It was a report of a court-martial…of Aaron Cross. 

For espionage…and the murder of Michael Casper.

“Just to summarize,” Steve sighed, “according to the trial documents I’ve been able to access, Cross was suspected of fraternizing with the enemy…to whit, a Soviet spy code-named the Black Widow. The prosecution put forward that, when Casper found out, Cross murdered him to keep his cover from being blown. He was tried and found guilty of both crimes…and hanged.”

“That’s not…” John whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

Neither could Clint. Sure, they’d left the last session in the middle of an argument between the two men, but there was no way Aaron would just up and murder Michael over Natalia’s presence in his life. They’d loved each other; that had been obvious from the story that had come out under hypnosis. How could it have gone from pledging their lives to each other, to this?

It was in that moment that Clint truly realized just how invested he’d become in the lives of the two dead lovers. He’d managed to go from skeptical into almost full-blown belief, and it had happened before he’d even known about it. It didn’t make sense, because Clint _knew_ better. He’d seen it, in the hypnotist act back in the circus, where it had been all about entertainment and making money. Clint had been behind the scenes, as it were, and had been a witness to it all. 

But this…this was so totally different from back then. Zemo had actually managed to help John find his voice again, if not his memories. Yes, it had come with getting a crash course in past lives, but even Sam had given his tacit approval to go back for more sessions, to get to the bottom of things. Now, Clint was beginning to wonder if it really had been such a good idea. To get in any deeper into this impossible tale between two men who’d fallen in love during a time when that sort of thing could have gotten them arrested and yet had seemingly made it work.

So, to find out how it had ended, in such tragedy…a really big part of Clint wanted to know the truth, to try and solve the terrible crime that he just couldn’t see Aaron committing. Not in a million years.

John took the report out of Clint’s slightly trembling fingers. The PI glanced at his client – the man who could end up being so much more – and saw the sheer determination in his blue eyes. He was feeling the same way Clint was, and they would be going back to Zemo’s in the morning with this new information, wanting to get to the bottom of things.

First, though, Clint needed to know more about Natalia Romanova.

**********

_“You want me to do what?” _Bucky exclaimed, his voice sounding slightly distorted over the cell connection.

Clint stifled his sigh. “I want you to put an ad in the classifieds. It needs to say, _Aaron wants to know if Natalia still misses the war._ Then with my phone number. That’s it. Oh, and make sure it goes as wide as possible.”

_“This doesn’t have anything to do with what Stevie dug up for you, does it?”_

“Of course, he told you about that.”

_“Well, not so much as told me, but left the files out where I could see them. He would make the shittiest spy ever.”_

That went without needing to be said. Steve Rogers was a _rotten_ liar, and Bucky knew every single one of his tells, which meant he didn’t even try around his boyfriend. 

Clint knew them, as well…not that he’d ever admit to that. After all, there was a reason his old nickname had been Hawkeye, and it wasn’t because he enjoyed 70’s television.

Clint knew this was a longshot. After all, even if Natalia Romanova was still in the country, she would have been in her eighties or nineties by now, and that was assuming she was even alive. The lifespans of Soviet spies had to have been crappy, and she’d been burned when her name had come up in Aaron Cross’ court martial. Her bosses couldn’t have been pleased at that, to have one of their best operatives outed in that way. 

He leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of coffee. Off in the background, he could hear the shower running; John had jumped in after breakfast, after Clint had told him he would be making a phone call.

Steve’s records really hadn’t included a lot on Natalia Romanova. Really, all that Clint had known about her had come out in the sessions John had had with Zemo. She hadn’t been in court during Aaron’s trial, which was damning in and of itself if she was innocent of turning Aaron to the Dark Side. 

Unless her superiors had already dealt with her.

Still, she was a lead, and Clint wasn’t about to let it drop. There was no way of contacting her directly, even if she still _was_ around, so this was the best thing to do. Surely, spies – or even former spies – paid attention to things like the news? Didn’t they put classified ads in the paper in order to get in touch with their fellow spies? Or was that just something he’d seen in a movie? Geez, Clint had no idea and, chances were, it wouldn’t work, but he had to try. The worst that could happen was there wouldn’t be a response.

_“I can also take a trip through the archives,” _Bucky went on, _“but I’m not sure that’s gonna really work. After all, if this woman was one of the best, I doubt she’s made news, and if Steve couldn’t access it, then the chances are I won’t be able to, either.”_

“Could you try? I’m sure you’re right, but it won’t hurt. I’ll also give Maria a call, I think she’s still got that contact at Interpol. Maybe she won’t mind asking them to do a little digging.” He knew he also had to arrange a time for John to come down and press formal charges against Grant Ward…if that was his real name. She’d promised to hold him for as long as it took to get down to the precinct, but Clint knew that John wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Maria wouldn’t object to that, either. She just loved putting assholes like Ward away for as long as she possibly could.

Clint was also going to go on a deep dive through the internet as soon as he got off the phone; he had his own contacts, some of them not so nice. Hell, he knew someone with the Rising Tide with connections to the Dark Web, and Skye would be more than happy to help out. The PI had been trying to get her out of the Rising Tide ever since he’d met her on a case, when she’d been suspected of killing her ex-lover, but she’d stepped in where Miles Lydon had left off, turning the Rising Tide into a well-oiled machine. She seemed to be thriving, taking the hacktivist group into completely new directions. Clint was proud of her, even if he still wanted her to turn over a new leaf and get a job that wasn’t likely to get her arrested.

_“I’ll get that ad in ASAP,” _Bucky promised. _“It’ll be online today and in the morning edition tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll get more of a bite than your friend’s photo has so far.”_

It had been a disappointment that no one had come forward yet, but Clint just _knew_ someone was out there, missing John, and it would only be a matter of time before they saw the picture and called. He had to have faith in that.

“Thanks, Buck. I’ll owe you another one.”

_“Nah…what are friends for? Besides, I know you want to find out who this guy is more than anyone.”_

In order to ignore the sudden urge to blush, Clint hung up on his friend. Honestly, what was it with these people? Sure, he wanted to discover John’s real identity, but the guy was his client. He would always have his client’s best interests at heart. The problem was, Bucky knew that, which was why he was so eager to help out. 

His friends were meddlers, and he loved them all.

He made the call to Maria, arranging to come down to the precinct in about an hour; she agreed that would be perfect, and would have everything ready to take John’s official statement. Clint could hear the glee in her voice, because Maria Hill lived for taking down the bad guys.

After finishing up with Maria, Clint tugged his laptop over onto his knees and booted it up then, using the thumb drive that Skye had given him awhile back, he brought up the page that was the Rising Tide’s front, using the login that she’d made up for him just for this purpose. Then, he waited.

An instant message screen popped up.

_*How’s Tahiti?_

The single sentence read.

It was a code phrase Clint and Skye had come up with, so she could verify it was really him. He typed in the reply, grinning a little. Their original meeting hadn’t been anywhere near Tahiti, but it worked as recognition just fine.

_*It’s a magical place._

He didn’t contact her very often, so Skye would know it was important the moment she got the correct code back. Clint did wish he could talk to her face-to-face, so to speak, but he had no idea where Skye was hiding at the moment. It worried him, but she was an adult, and knew how to keep herself safe. That didn’t necessarily mean that something might not happen to her, but Skye was smart and knew the back alleys of the internet like they were the palm of her hand.

_*Hey, Clint. What’s up?_

As he typed in the explanation of his visit, he heard John coming out of the bathroom, shuffling into the bedroom and then through the living room and into the kitchen, getting his own cup of coffee. Clint barely registered the slight smile on his face, over the fact that John had made himself quite at home in Clint’s apartment, as if he’d been there forever. After so many years of not wanting anyone in his private space, being glad that John had come along and was just as happy being there as Clint was having him there was a very pleasant surprise indeed. 

He would have to arrange something nice for Sam when he got the chance, as a thank you for asking him to help John find out who he really was.

He gave his houseguest a smile, then went back to chatting with Skye. He let her know what he needed, and she answered him back with a smiling emoji.

_*I’ll hit up every board I can think of. Are you sure you want to put your phone number out there, Clint? The Dark Web is a pretty unforgiving place._

_*Yes, I’m sure. We need to get her to answer me directly, and I don’t want to wait until the next time I’m online. Besides, if Natalia’s still around, she might not wait to hear from me, either._

_*Point. Not sure why you’re so interested in a former Soviet spy, but it’s your business. Tag me if you need any more help._

_*You got it. Take care._

The response was a long line of various emojis that Clint interpreted to mean, _Talk to you later, Be careful, _and a sexual act that made him blush. He logged off quickly, setting the laptop on the coffee table, turning his attention to the man who was sitting beside him.

“I think I’ve done all I can to contact Natalia, if she’s still around,” he told John, taking a sip of his now-cool coffee.

“Do you think she is?” John asked, his face serious. He was sitting close enough for Clint to touch, and he had to really wrestle away the impulse to do just that. John was still his client, and was still impaired, and the PI wasn’t about to take any sort of advantage. It was difficult, though, because he really wanted to rest his hand on John’s thigh, so tantalizingly near. 

Clint shrugged, hoping he hadn’t been silent too long. The last thing he wanted to do was to put any sort of pressure on John at this point. “No idea. She’d be really old by now if she was. But, I do think she’s the key to what really happened to Aaron and Michael and I’m hoping that, even if she’s dead, there will be _someone_ out there who’ll see the message and still respond. John…I’m not sure how much more we can get from your sessions with Zemo.”

The other man nodded, almost reluctantly. “I know we started going to him in order to get my memories back, but that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. Yes, I can talk now, but I’m no closer to knowing who I really am now than I was a couple of days ago.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But I’m finding myself more interested in what happened between two dead men than I am with my own life, right now. And it’s not because they look like us, either.” His eyes were very sad. “I’m hoping for one more session. I want to know what really happened. I’m also hoping I can see the night that Michael was killed. Maybe that would give us a clue.”

“John.” Clint turned in his seat, to face the man who’d come to mean more to him than he ever could have foreseen, and in such a short amount of time. “If we do find out anything, you know we won’t be able to change what happened back then. Nor will we be able to change the record of the trial.”

“But someone will know the truth.” The conviction in John’s voice was contagious.

“And if it turns out that Aaron really _did_ kill him?”

“You really don’t think he did. Do you?”

No. He didn’t. And he couldn’t say _why_ he was so certain of that because, having read the court transcripts that Steve had left, it had been pretty cut and dried. It was just a gut-deep certainty that Aaron Cross was innocent, and that someone had gotten away with murder.

When he’d taken on this particular case, he hadn’t even considered that he’d be investigating a decades’ old murder mystery.

Funny how things turned out.

**********

“Aaron moved out the night of their fight,” John was saying, his eyes closed, utterly relaxed in the chair that shouldn’t have been comfortable to slump in like that. “Michael wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him…and he did, honestly. It was the Black Widow he didn’t trust, and all he wanted to do was get Aaron out from under her control. But Aaron wasn’t willing to see or hear reason, instead storming out of their apartment with just a duffle bag and a load of righteous indignation.”

Zemo had gotten John back under fairly quickly; Clint was a little alarmed at just how receptive his client had become to hypnosis. He hadn’t seen any of the signs that Zemo was taking advantage, or planting any sort of cues in John’s mind, but it was getting to the point of worry that John was just so easy to take under now. 

This was their last session. They’d agreed on the drive over, after the stop at the precinct and John’s swearing out a complaint against Grant Ward. Maria had taken so much pleasure in taking John’s statement, her eyes glowing with an almost unholy glee as he signed what she’d typed out for him, promising her that he would come in and re-sign once he knew his real name, to make it even more official. Maria might have bitch-like propensities, but she was a damned good cop, taking care of the victims she met along the way. And, to her, John was one of those victims.

They’d filled Zemo in on what they’d discovered, and the shop owner had looked grave, saying he would bring John up to the time of the murder. Clint was hoping they’d see something that would give them a clue because, like John, he just couldn’t see that Aaron would have brutally murdered his lover over a woman. The autopsy report had been grim; Michael had been stabbed repeatedly, which was another reason the court martial tribunal had thought it was Aaron. It had been an obvious crime of passion, and the transcripts had thought it had come from a place of anger at his superior officer finding out that he was a traitor.

It hadn’t helped that they’d been investigating traitors within the very organization they worked for… and in the government as well. Clint could see where the prosecution had gotten their motive: that Aaron had been caught, and Michael had been about to turn him in when Aaron had tried to keep his treason a secret by killing the man who’d discovered it. It _did_ look bad; that Aaron had been seen contacting the Black Widow in the days leading up to the murder had been all the evidence they’d needed to bring back a guilty verdict.

The fact that both men had been homosexuals hadn’t even come up at trial. Chances were that little piece of information hadn’t been dug up by the ensuing investigation. Which spoke volumes about both men and their ability to keep secrets.

Which was, thinking about it, another reason to believe that Aaron Cross hadn’t been some sort of turncoat, because Clint believed that he’d have been able to keep it hidden easily. Him being seen with Natalia Romanova had been him _not_ hiding. To anyone with any sense, if they were about to betray their country, the two wouldn’t have met in public places, out and about and for anyone to catch them.

“That night,” John continued, “was the first night in years that Michael had been alone in what was supposed to have been their home. He was vulnerable, and…” He suddenly frowned, his breathing picking up. “There’s someone in the house.”

“Remember,” Zemo cautioned, “you are merely an observer. Tell us what you see.”

John was silent, but it was obvious he was becoming more and more upset. “I can’t. I can’t see…there’s someone walking in the living room…” His head began to move side to side, as if he was trying to shake the memory loose. 

Clint took three steps forward, but was stopped from getting closer by Zemo, who held up a hand to keep him back. “Take another step back. Don’t let your emotions take control –”

“He’s here,” John was whispering now, words carrying the faint thread of fear.

“Who’s here?” Clint demanded before Zemo could stop him. This could be it, the proof they needed, even if they wouldn’t be able to use it if Aaron truly was innocent of the crime he’d been convicted and executed for. 

John’s eyes snapped open, darting up to meet Clint’s. “You. You were there.” He looked as surprised as Clint had ever seen him. He must have snapped himself out of the trance Zemo had put him in, which was new. He hadn’t done that before, not since that first day on the couch at Clint’s apartment, when John had screamed for help and then had begun choking.

“You mean Aaron?” After all, Clint did look uncannily like Aaron Cross.

“No, it was you. Like you are now.” A line appeared between John’s brows, and it took every bit of Clint’s strength not to reach down and smooth it away. “How is that possible?”

“The past and the future are beginning to merge,” Zemo answered, taking a sip of his water to hide his own surprise. John coming up out of hypnosis on his own had been an obvious shock to the shop owner. “At this point, if you want to know anything more, I would suggest we try to hypnotize Mr. Barton, as I suspect he may be the other half of our past life duo. It’s not going to work with you again, John. Not after you brought yourself out from under like you just did, plus I don’t think there’s anything else to discover.” He looked really disappointed in that, but there was something else in his dark eyes, something that Clint couldn’t read…

Well, that wasn’t at all what Clint would have foreseen for their last session.

“No,” John answered firmly. “Clint doesn’t like the idea of hypnosis, I won’t ask him to do that.”

He was right about that. Clint hadn’t made it a secret that he wasn’t exactly impressed with the notion of being hypnotized, mainly because of his exposure to the charlatans of his youth. Despite that, he’d become fascinated with the idea of this past life experience John had been having, with the lives of Michael Casper and Aaron Cross; he hadn’t been able to help himself. It was why he wanted to know what had really happened between them, what had actually caused Michael’s death, because there was a part of him that just couldn’t accept that Aaron had been responsible. He’d been hoping that this last session with John would not only knock loose his lost memories, but would either prove or disprove the trial verdict. Sure, they couldn’t have done anything about it, but it would have given Clint – and John – peace of mind over it.

Which was the main reason why he found himself sitting in the chair John had vacated…the need for the peace of mind that knowing exactly what had happened would bring. They couldn’t count on Natalia still being around somewhere, let alone seeing one of the many ads he’d put out, although he’d had a lot of faith in them reaching _someone_ out there. There was a really good chance that Natalia Romanova was long dead, and would she even have known the truth behind the murder? She hadn’t been there in the apartment, unless John, in his hidden memory, hadn’t seen her there.

Damn, he’d come a long way from being skeptical about past lives.

However, before they could get started, his cellphone rang.

“One sec.” He reached into his pocket, checking the caller ID before answering. It wasn’t one he recognized. He would have usually let it go to voicemail, but he had a lot of messages out about John and he couldn’t really afford to miss anything. 

_“Is this Mr. Barton?”_ a pleasant, English-accented voice asked after Clint had answered.

“It is. Who is this?”

_“My name is Jemma Simmons, I’m a student out at the university. I just saw your ad about that poor, amnesiac man, and I am certain I know who he is.”_

There was something in her voice that had Clint sitting up. “Oh?”

_“Yes.” _Miss Simmons took a deep breath. _“It’s Professor Phillip Coulson. He teaches History here; I’m in one of his classes. When he didn’t show up on Tuesday, we all thought maybe he was sick. But, then he wasn’t in class again Thursday…me and some of the others decided to see if we could find him. Fitz – he’s my boyfriend, Leopold Fitz – saw the advertisement while he was doing on online search, and that’s why I’m calling.”_

That was the most likely sounding explanation of John’s identity Clint had gotten since he’d had Bucky put that ad in the paper. “Can you tell me something about this Professor Coulson that might identify him to me, so I know you’re telling me the truth?”

The question had John taking a step forward, curiosity on his face. Clint fumbled a little, putting the phone on speaker, so John could listen in as well.

There was some talking on the other end, but Clint couldn’t make out what was being said. Then, Miss Simmons returned. _“The ad says there was a single glove found with him?” _When Clint hummed his reply, she went on, _“Well, Professor Coulson had this strange habit of wearing only one glove…on his left hand. I remember Mack asking about it – Mack is in our study group – and the Professor claimed that his left hand was always colder than his right. It didn’t make any sense, but who are any of us to say anything about a person’s habits? I mean, Fitz has this one thing he does with his –”_

Clint heard a sudden loud squawking sound down the connection, but didn’t pay it any attention, his eyes snapping up to John’s. Because this would certainly explain the lack of a right-hand glove, if this professor only wore the one. 

John’s eyes were shining, and Clint couldn’t help but smile in return. This could be the lead they’d been hoping for when that ad had gone out, someone who knew one thing about John that hadn’t been intimated about in the paper. This could be it.

“We’ll need to check your story,” Clint told their caller.

_“Oh, of course,” _Miss Simmons hastened to say. _“You can find Professor Coulson’s information on the university website. Please, can you let us know if your client is him? It’s just, we’re all really worried about the professor…”_

“Yes, I will. I have your number now, and I’ll call as soon as I have confirmation.”

_“Thank you so much, Mr. Barton. And, if it’s not him…I’m not saying he isn’t, because we’re absolutely positive your client is Professor Coulson…well, we’d like to hire you to find him. We can’t pay much and, from what we do know, the professor doesn’t have any family, but I’m sure we can work something out.”_

“I’ll let you know.” 

They said their goodbyes, then Clint was on his phone, bringing up the university website and doing a search of the faculty pages. 

His heart sped up as the slight adrenaline rush of a case solved hit him.

There he was.

Professor Phillip J. Coulson.

He showed the phone to John – Phil Coulson – who accepted it with a combination of trepidation and hope. “That’s me.” The bright, happy smile wiped away any doubt on his face. 

Clint melted a little at that expression. “Yes, it is. Case solved.”

**********

It didn’t take much to track down where Professor Coulson lived; he was in the phone book. 

His apartment was in a fancy building with an honest-to-god turret, in a residential area near the campus. According to the listing in the phone book, he lived on the third floor, so they took the elevator – it was a lot steadier than the one in Clint’s building – and found the landlady standing outside the apartment that was Phil Coulson’s, smiling in greeting. She was perhaps in her fifties, with reddish-brown hair and dark eyes, and must have been quite a looker when she was younger…although, she was still a very handsome woman in Clint’s opinion.

“It’s good to see you, Professor Coulson,” the woman exclaimed. “Forgive me, but I didn’t even know you were missing until those kids of yours showed up here, looking for you. I thought you’d just been working late or was out of town or something.”

“Don’t worry about it…” John had obviously blanked on her name.

“Mrs. Parker,” she said. “Is it true, you don’t remember who you are?” Her expression was solicitous, and Clint could tell that she was most likely the same with all of her tenants. In a way, she reminded him of Mama Darlene.

“I’m afraid so,” he – Phillip, Clint had to start calling him Phillip – answered. “But I’m hoping being in familiar surroundings will help jog my memory a bit.”

“I should have checked on you. I mean, you were a bit shaken when you came home the other night, but you said you were fine.” She bustled forward, the keyring in her hand jingling as she moved. “Here, I’ll open that for you.”

“What do you mean?” Clint asked, stepping out of her way. He’d always believed that something had happened to precipitate the memory loss; he could recall seeing the clothes that Phillip had been wearing back at Stark House as looking as if he’d been in some sort of fight. 

“Oh, the professor said he’d been mugged on his way home from class.” The key slid into the lock, and Mrs. Parker opened the apartment for them. “I wanted to call the police, but Professor Coulson didn’t want to, he said they hadn’t gotten much and, if whoever had done it needed what little money he’d had, then he could afford to let it go. Besides, he’d said it was easy to cancel the credit cards and getting a new driver’s license wasn’t that hard. I had to laugh at that, because he’d complained so, the last time he’d had to get it renewed, that the lines had been outrageous at the DMV.”

Clint snorted. “Maybe next time he’ll call the cops?” He gave Phillip the side-eye; the other man managed to look quite embarrassed about the whole thing. “At least it might avoid the whole amnesia thing.”

Phillip huffed, stalking past the pair of them and into the open apartment. Mrs. Parker gave Clint a pat on the shoulder and a wink, then headed back down the hallway, leaving him to either follow her, or enter behind Phillip.

Of course, he chose the latter.

Phillip Coulson’s apartment was a little larger than Clint’s own, its extreme tidiness making it seem even bigger. The living room had a large entertainment system, a leather sofa, a couple of matching chairs, and a large bookcase that would have appeared stuffed full if it wasn’t for the fact that everything was arranged perfectly. Over the sofa was an antique rifle displayed in a glassed-in case; it reminded Clint of how he’d hung up his longbow, realizing that this antique must have meant as much to its owner as the PI’s bow, from the loving care that had been put into its presentation.

There was a kitchen that was up a short flight of three steps off to the right; beside it would have been a dining area if not for the large computer desk that took up the space. It was the only cluttered place in the front room, and even the papers and books on it held to a certain order. An ancient USO poster had been framed and was hanging on the wall over the pair of large screen monitors. 

A door led off the living room, which Clint figured out was the bedroom. He also assumed that the bathroom would have been off the bedroom, even though he couldn’t see it from where he was standing.

Phillip was nosing around the desk, his brows drawn down as he took in the desk’s contents. Clint decided to mooch his way over to the bookcase; perusing the spines, he saw that most of the books were on various sections of history, with a focus on World War Two, with a smattering of fiction novels, fantasy and science fiction and mysteries. 

There were three books written by Phillip J. Coulson.

“Hey,” he called out, “you’re also a published author.”

Philip joined him, eyes tracking to the books Clint was pointing out. “Seems like my specialty was World War Two. That can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

Clint rather didn’t think it was. “Seems like you had all those past life memories rattling around in your subconscious for a while, now.”

“At least since I decided what was I going to study in college.”

“It really makes you wonder about all this past lives shit, and how it influences our current time here on Earth.”

Phillip didn’t say anything to that. Instead, before Clint could even react, he found himself spun around, his back against the shelves, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

He groaned. He couldn’t help it. Kissing John – Phillip – had been something he’d wanted to do almost from the moment he’d met the man. It had been so very hard to keep his hands off…

Clint pulled away, just as tongue was getting involved. “Phillip, we can’t –”

“Pretty certain I prefer Phil.” The man’s eyes were dark, and his hair mussed from Clint’s grabby hands. “And I know the only reason you’ve been holding back was out of uncertainty that I’d be available – “

“And the fact that you have no clue who you are. And you’re a client.”

“All very valid reasons. However, as I don’t see any photos of myself with anyone else around, you’ve helped me find out who I am –”

“You still don’t remember though.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “But I’m where I should be, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I do remember. So, since I’m home, and have a name…I think it’s safe to assume I’m no longer your client…”

Clint couldn’t help the grin that twitched up the corners of his mouth. “You seem to have defeated all my arguments for being an honorable man.”

Phil’s own smile was sly. “Oh, good.”

With that, he dove back in, kissing Clint as if he needed to in order to breathe. Clint quite happily opened his mouth under Phil’s, letting him in, and it was perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

**********

The phone ringing had Clint wanting to pull the pillow up over his head, in order to escape the noise.

Phil grumbled something unintelligible against Clint’s neck, his face buried against him, the PI acting as little spoon, arm snug around Clint’s chest. Clint was warm and comfortable in Phil’s bed, after a rather fantastic afternoon, and the phone was seriously putting a crimp in that.

Groaning, Clint practically tumbled out of bed despite Phil trying to anchor him in place, grabbing his jeans where the irritating ringing was coming from. He barely managed to get to his cellphone before the final ring, answering it with a curt, “Barton.”

_“Is that how you answer your phone all the time?” _the sarcastic male voice complained. _“It’s a wonder you’re successful at all, if you do.”_

Clint’s ire immediately rose; after all, this asshole was bitching at him and ruining his post-coital chill. “Look, whoever the hell you are –”

_“Calm the fuck down, Barton. I’m calling because of a certain contact on the Dark Web that told me you were looking for the Black Widow.”_

Hot damn. He really hadn’t believed contacting Skye would work, and yet there it was. “You know the Black Widow, then?”

There was a snort. _“I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t.” _He rattled off an address, then hung up.

What an asshole.

Which went a long way to convincing Clint that the guy was on the level. Not all the way, but most of the way. In Clint’s experience, the nastier someone was, the likelier they were telling at least part of the truth, and he was fairly certain the jerk really did know something about Natalia Romanova.

“You got a lead on Natalia?”

Clint turned to regard Phil. His new lover was leaning on one elbow, the sheet pooled around his hips, looking damned sexy; he’d always had a thing for chest hair, and Phil had it going. Clint wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed and run his fingers through it some more. And do other things that would have them both getting a couple more orgasms before dinnertime.

But, shit. Duty called. 

“Looks like it. Rude dude just gave me an address and hung up.” Clint really didn’t want to get dressed, but this could be the answer to what had happened between Michael and Aaron, and he knew Phil was just as curious as he was. “I’m gonna go and check it out.”

“I’ll come with you.” Phil made to get up.

“You have students to call and let know you’re alright,” the PI said, searching for his underwear and finding them under the bedside table. He shimmied into them, then pulled on his jeans. “Besides, we don’t even know if this is a valid lead; it could be someone yanking our chains.” He didn’t think that was the case, but anything was possible.

“All the more reason to go with you. You’ll need back-up.”

Clint was touched by Phil’s wanting to protect him. He crawled across the bed in order to kiss him. “I hate to say this,” he murmured after he was done; he was never going to get tired of kissing the man, “but I’m a trained professional. Have you ever used a gun outside of the antique you have on your wall?”

Phil’s expression turned mulish. “If you’re expecting trouble –”

“I always expect trouble. But, unlike you, I can fight it off.” He _didn’t_ remind Phil of the fight against Grant Ward; he still had no idea how Phil had managed to get the asshole on the ground, but was leaning toward it being either one of those past life abilities that seemed to just appear when Phil was least expecting it, or he’d taken some sort of martial arts and just didn’t remember doing it. As either one, it couldn’t be relied on in a pinch. “I know you want answers as much as I do. But, let me check this out first. Then, if it’s a good lead, I can come back and fetch you.”

His lover – one more thing Clint would never get tired of thinking – looked as if he wanted to argue, but knew that he couldn’t because Clint was right: Phil simply didn’t have the skills needed to face off with someone out to cause trouble. The guy on the phone had sounded dangerous, which was an impressive feat in and of itself, so a certain measure of caution was called for.

Besides, he wasn’t about to risk Phil’s life. After all, Clint had just found him. There was no way he was gonna lose him now.

**********

Clint managed to get out of Phil’s apartment forty-five minutes later, having been distracted by the kiss goodbye that Phil had insisted on giving him. He eventually pulled himself away and, as he closed the door behind him, Phil was going through the desk, looking for anything that would tell him more about himself. Clint had shared Jemma Simmons’ phone number, and Phil had said he was going to call her first thing. He seemed a little touched by the idea that his students had been concerned for him, and had gotten together in order to find him. Clint had to admit, he was a little touched by it as well, and really wanted to meet this group of kids who’d seen something was wrong and had done something about it.

The address he’d been given was to a nursing home in a quiet residential area. The building was large, two story, with two wings leading off of a main mezzanine area. Clint entered the building through the front door, the lobby wide and inviting, walls painted a pale blue and carpeted in a darker shade. A long nurses’ station took up one side of the lobby, with doors leading off the main room behind it, plaques beside each marking them as administrative offices. 

The lobby itself held a couple of couches and several chairs, upholstered in pastel floral patterns. Several were occupied, the residents watching a large screen television that someone had set on a gameshow Clint didn’t recognize; but then, he really wasn’t into that sort of thing. The curtains hanging over the large windows were open, letting in the light. Through one of them Clint could see a patio with furniture and a small garden out back.

The only thing out of place was the tall, bald guy dressed in head-to-toe black, including a damned eyepatch.

Clint had the distinct impression that this was the man who’d phoned. That impression solidified when the man straightened up from the section of wall he’d been leaning against and started walking toward the private investigator.

There was unmistakable bulge of a gun underneath his long leather coat.

Clint stiffened, not wanting to draw the gun he himself had in its holster on his waist, afraid that a firefight would get some of the old folks in the room injured or even killed. Instead, he shrugged his leather jacket a little, bringing the holster to attention, warning the stranger that he could take care of himself.

The guy smirked, like he was amused by the whole thing.

“Clint Barton,” the man drawled, and yes…it was the same voice from the phone call. “Imagine my surprise when I found out about that message you left for Natalia Romanova. I can’t even think why you’d be looking for her.”

“And you are?” Clint asked pointedly. He wasn’t about to share with this guy unless the bastard shared with him.

If Clint had thought the man was amused before, he was downright laughing now, except it was silent and only showed in his single eye. “Someone who knows who the Black Widow is, and who can get you in to see her.”

With that, the man spun on his heel and headed down the left-hand corridor. Clint stood there for a few seconds, surprised, then followed, jogging to catch up. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded once he’d caught up. “Are you saying Natalia Romanova is still alive?” It was the best result he and Phil could have hoped for; she would most likely have information on the death of Michael Casper and the execution for it of Aaron Cross. 

“We wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t,” the asshole pointed out, stopping at one of the closed doors near the end of the hall. “You can imagine our surprise when we got your message. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Natalia Romanova died fifty-odd years ago, on the eve of her attempted defection from Soviet Russia. How the fuck did you even hear of her?”

“I think I’d like to explain it once,” Clint answered sharply. Not that he expected anyone to believe him, but he was perfectly willing to spill his guts for answers.

“That’s fair.” The man pushed the door open without knocking, which Clint considered just as rude as everything else he’d seen of the son of a bitch to this point.

It was a single room, decorated in shades of red. The tall dresser was home to all sorts of photos, mostly of a beautiful woman with red hair and a little girl with equally red hair, looking enough like her to most likely have been her daughter. There wasn’t any man in them, but there had to have been at least a sperm donor involved if the woman had had a child. 

The room looked like it had been lived in for quite a while as well as judging from the frail, grey-haired woman in the bed, the head of it raised enough so that still-sharp green eyes could see the entire area; they rested on Clint the moment he entered, widening slightly as she noticed him. He could understand why, since he knew he was the spitting image of Aaron Cross, and Aaron had been the best friend of the Black Widow.

There was a young woman seated in a chair next to the bed, in a black blouse and faded jeans, fashionable boots crossed at the ankles. Her hair was as red as the woman’s in the photographs, and Clint pegged her as possibly a granddaughter; her eyes were grey, though, instead of green.

“Are you done intimidating him, Nick?” the elderly woman said, in a strong tone that belied her age, an accent soft but clear behind the teasing words.

The intimidating man rolled his eye once more. “Need I remind you that this was my idea, Nat?”

“Only because you were curious about whoever it was putting out feelers for me after all these years.” The woman’s green eyes met Clint’s, turning fond. “You are so much like him…were you related in some way?”

“Not really.” So, this was the infamous ex-Soviet spy, codenamed the Black Widow. Despite her advanced age, Clint got the impression she could still kick his ass. “That is a story and a half and, chances are, at the end of it you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Natalia Romanova waved her hand toward the room’s other chair. “Then, have a seat, Mr. Barton, and allow me to perform the introductions.” As he did so, she began, “I am Natalia Romanova, which I am certain you are aware.” Clint nodded. “This is my granddaughter, Natasha.” The young woman in the other chair bobbed her head once in acknowledgement. “And, finally, my handler. Colonel Nicholas J. Fury, Army Counterintelligence.”

Alright, that explained why the man was just so damned scary.

“Now,” Fury said, “you gonna tell us what the hell is going on?” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, as if he was entitled to be there. Well, Clint supposed he was.

So, Clint explained. He started with being asked by Sam to help his amnesiac client – carefully not giving them Phil’s name, out of a sense of client privilege – find out who he was, then led into being approached by Helmut Zemo – he also left out the man’s name, not wanting to give up a source in this case – and how all this past life stuff started as a way of trying to knock a few memories loose. How Phil – no name out loud again – had gone on about Michael Casper and Aaron Cross, and their story, and how it had intrigued both of them to the point where they’d decided to go searching for answers from the one person who could have told them if the story was true or not…Natalia Romanova.

“Honestly,” Clint finished, “I didn’t think we’d get a response, either because you were dead or a figment of my client’s imagination. So, you can imagine our shock when I got a phone call from a rude bastard giving the address to this place and then hanging up on me, ruining the plans I’d had for the evening.”

The Black Widow laughed. “That is our Fury.”

“You know,” Fury said, “I could say that I’ve never heard such a load of bull in my life, but I’ve seen too much weird shit to dismiss it. Besides, your client seemed to have gotten quite a few things correct so, unless he had access to classified documents –”

“We’ve discovered that he’s a history teacher.” It wasn’t quite honest, because Phil was a full-blown professor, but Clint didn’t think anyone needed to know that just yet either, having no compunction whatsoever at hiding even more information from these total strangers.

“Then I have to believe it.” 

“That…was surprisingly easy.” Clint couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop. Surely these people weren’t _really_ going to accept the idea that someone had been tapping into a former life and bringing up things he just couldn’t have known.

It looked as if they were. Damn.

“It doesn’t hurt that you look very much like Aaron,” Ms. Romanova added. “And, you say you found out about the trial through the Veterans Association?”

Clint nodded. “I have a friend who helps out there every once in a while.” No, he wasn’t going to mention Steve’s name or job title, either.

Although he had to distinct impression that Fury already knew. But then, the man _was_ some sort of Army spy. He’d probably known the minute Steve had accessed the old Army files. It was just Clint’s message that had caused him to act; after all, what Steve had found was all old information, back from after the war, and would have been in what passed in the Army as public domain. Besides, what was so mysterious about a man being tried for murder and treason? And those records hadn’t exactly been complete, either.

Natasha shifted in her own chair. “And these…past lives…had you seeking out some sort of confirmation?” She didn’t have the same accent as her grandmother, but she did have the same smoky tone that would have sent a small shiver up the spine of any man or woman who heard it… well, except for Clint, who had a man waiting for him once he got the full story.

He really should have at least called Phil, but he didn’t really want to out him to these people, not just yet.

Fury probably knew about him, too. But then, he’d had Phil’s face in the paper and plastered all over the internet for a couple of days now. It wouldn’t have been hard to put two and two together and come up with him being Clint’s current client. Because he was absolutely certain that Fury had checked him out before making that call. After all, he’d known Clint’s name, and that wasn’t something that had been out on the Dark Web. Only his phone number.

“Actually,” Clint admitted, “we don’t believe that Aaron killed Michael. We were curious if the infamous Black Widow knew anything about that.”

“It is not as if you could use my word to prove Aaron’s innocence,” she murmured, her eyes sad. “If I could have done it back then…he was the only one who saw _me_, Natalia, and not the Black Widow. He wanted to help me, but I was too proud…and too afraid…to accept it. I knew he would get into trouble for even being seen with me, but I was also too much of a coward to make him leave.” She sighed. “Back then, I’d never had a friend before. It was…a novel, experience. Now, I know, I wasn’t as good a friend as I could have been, and that is one of my biggest regrets.”

“Then you know what really happened that night?” Clint sat forward eagerly, knowing that this was the end of their quest, that, for good or bad, they would know the truth in the next several minutes.

“I do, yes.”

“One second.” The investigator pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly dialing the number of the landline in Phil’s apartment; honestly, he’d thought having a real landline a bit silly, but then Phil had lost his cellphone, possibly during the same mugging that had caused his amnesia in the first place. 

It answered on the second ring. _“Hello?”_

“Hi.” Clint knew he was smiling like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He put the phone on speaker, letting Phil know that was what he was going to do, sitting it down on the bedside tray.

_“Clint. What’s going on?”_

“I’m sitting here with Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow; her granddaughter Natasha, and Army Counterintelligence officer Colonel Nick Fury. This is my client, who shall remain nameless for now, but who has as big a stake in this as I do, and deserves to hear what Ms. Romanova has to say.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Phil said, _“Thank you for speaking to us, Ms. Romanova. I know it’s a little irregular…”_

“It is,” she agreed, “but it’s time for the truth to come out.”

Fury was standing against the wall, glowering, but he wasn’t saying no. Natasha sat back in her own chair, looking as if she was settling in for the story about to come. Clint felt his own heart start to pound in excitement. He was aware he’d gone from disbelief to this driving need to know so quickly, it didn’t make sense, but it was there. And now they were going to get the real story.

“I met Aaron Cross at a particularly boring party,” Ms. Romanova began. “At the time, I knew he was with the nascent CIA, and yes, I did start out attempting to get into his good graces in order to get him to trust me and to, perhaps, get him onto my side of things. I hadn’t actually been ordered to by the GRU, I was acting on my own recognizance, and I honestly thought it would be a simple thing to seduce him. I wasn’t counting on him not being interested. To say that I was puzzled would be an understatement.

“It wasn’t until later that I realized he would never have been interested. That there was someone else, and that someone was his superior officer.

“I will not bore you with all the details. Needless to say, we became fast friends, close enough that I was able to tell him how dissatisfied I was with working for the Soviet, for having my leash with them so tightly held that I could barely move, let alone breathe. Aaron tried so very hard to help me, but I didn’t allow myself to be helped. And then, our friendship was discovered.

“The night of Michael’s murder, Aaron came to me, saying that he and Michael had had such an argument over me, and that Michael was frightened for him if he continued to see me. The thing was, Aaron had too good a heart. He did not want to give up on me, no matter what it would do to his career. From reports we’d gotten from the mole inside the CIA, the GRU knew that they were getting close to discovering who that mole was, and I should have warned Aaron…I didn’t, and that was where I made my first mistake.”

The sadness in her voice was nearly heartbreaking. Clint could see it, in his minds’ eye: a young Natalia, holding onto such a devastating secret, and yet too afraid to say anything to her only friend about it. 

_“Come with me, Nat! You can trust Michael.”_

_“I do not know him, Aaron.”_

_“But you know me.”_

_“I do.”_

_“And you trust me.”_

_“I…yes. I do, although I do not know why.”_

_“Then trust me when I say that Michael will take care of you. Just come with me, please!”_

_“But he is asking you to choose.”_

_“Because he doesn’t know you yet! He will and, once he does, he’ll come to care for you the same way I do!”_

_“Oh, Aaron…you are so naïve.”_

_“Why? Because I trust someone with my life…and yours?”_

_“My life is not something you can entrust to anyone. It is my choice.”_

_“Then take my hand and choose freedom, Nat. Choose me.”_

“I could not go with him. I sent him back to Michael, not knowing what he would find.” A single tear tracked down her pale cheek.

Natasha said something to her in what sounded like Russian, clasping her hand and looking at her worriedly. 

“No, it needs to be said, before it is too late and I have lost my chance,” Ms. Romanova chided her quietly. “Aaron is not alive to know, but Mr. Barton…he can be that proxy, as well as the man who remembered them both. And, perhaps, a little forgiveness can come of it.”

_“You’re telling it now,” _Phil said from the phone. _“You have no idea how much this means to us, Ms. Romanova.”_

“Please, it is Nat. Aaron was the first to call me that, and it is only right that you do as well.”

“Thank you, Nat,” Clint said sincerely. “And it’s Clint.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “And thank you, Clint…and whoever you are on the phone. You have given an old woman a chance to set things right before dying.”

_“It’s Phil.”_

Well, _that_ was out of the bag, but then it really had been Phil’s decision. It wasn’t as if Fury probably hadn’t already found out about Phil before calling Clint; after all, he had to have seen the photo if he’d done any sort of research on whoever it had been that Skye had gotten the message from. 

“This next part, I only discovered after the fact, and from visiting Aaron while he was in prison. He did go home, and that was when he’d found Michael dead, stabbed over and over again. It was only minutes after that the military police came for him, having received some sort of anonymous tip from someone who had purported to be a neighbor in the same building.”

Clint nodded. “I read that in the trial testimony. They’d never found out what neighbor it was who’d reported the argument that was supposedly overheard.”

“Yeah,” Fury spoke up. “That didn’t stop them from finding Cross guilty, though. When I read the original report, I thought that part of it was really fishy. The prosecution team had claimed that, whoever it had been, was just too afraid to step up and give testimony, especially after the treason and espionage charges were filed.”

“I had suspected at the time that the call had been made from the actual murderer,” Natalia replied. “After Aaron was arrested, I began my own investigation. I did manage to get into the prison to visit, although I had to heavily disguise myself in order to gain access. Aaron swore to me that he didn’t commit the murder, but that he suspected he was being framed by the mole they’d been looking for. That made sense, especially if Michael had been getting close. And so, I went from that assumption and began to follow the trail.”

_“I didn’t do it, Nat. I came home and found Michael like that.”_

_“I am so very sorry for you. I know he was your friend.”_

_“He was more than that to me. I would never have done a thing to hurt him! I just…damnit…if I’m being honest, the only thing keeping me from wishing for death is the fact that Michael’s real killer is still out there, and they’ve gotten away with it while I’m stuck in this fucking cell!”_

_“I…had no idea you were that close.”_

_“No one did. We had to be careful.”_

_“I am sorry now that I did not trust him, if you had that much…faith, in him.”_

_“He was the best man I’d ever met. I’m gonna miss him. Maybe…if they find me guilty, which is kinda a foregone conclusion with all this evidence trumped up against me, I can find him again on the other side.”_

_“You believe in an afterlife?”_

_“I have to. I won’t accept any other ending to this life.”_

_“I will see what I can discover. But, Aaron…there is not much I can do.”_

_“Don’t risk yourself for me. I’m not worth it.”_

_“Yes, you are. I only wish I’d known just what Michael had meant to you before I refused to let you bring me in.”_

_“You understand why I couldn’t say anything.”_

_“I do. I cannot understand the way you feel, but that is only because of my indoctrination, and because I am incapable of love.”_

_“Everyone is capable of love, Nat. You just haven’t found that person for you yet.”_

“Unfortunately, by the time I had uncovered what had truly occurred, it was too late. Aaron had been found guilty and had been executed. Hanged by a military court for crimes he did not commit. And I was just as guilty of that conviction as if I’d sat on the tribunal myself, for not speaking up and revealing what I knew, even though my identity had been revealed in open court and my career with the GRU was over. It would only have been a matter of time before my handlers would have come for me.”

“She did eventually come to us,” Fury added. “We helped her defect from the USSR, set her up with a new identity, and she gave us all she knew. I still don’t know the whole truth, so I’m hearing this for the first time as well, but I know there are highly classified documents about the investigation that I’ve seen but are so highly redacted they’re nothing but lines of black ink. As high as I am in Intelligence, I still don’t have access. Hell, I’m not even sure the original documents even _exist_ anymore.”

“That is because the mole in the CIA was Alexander Pierce, the head of the entire organization.”

Fury whistled. “Shit. I was not expecting that.”

Neither had been Clint. Phil had mentioned Alexander Pierce during one of his hypnosis sessions, but it had never once occurred to him that someone that high up could have been the mole. “Why didn’t he just put a stop to the investigation?” he asked, confused. “I mean, instead of assigning his two best men to the job, Pierce could have simply made it all disappear.”

“Too many people outside the CIA knew about the spy,” Natalia answered. “Pierce had to make a show of the investigation, and to find someone to take the blame. Killing Michael and framing Aaron for it was the perfect opportunity. So, he requested the assassin code-named the Winter Soldier to do the deed.”

This time, the whistle came through the phone. _“I’ve heard of him,” _Phil said, sounding stunned. _“A mention of him showed up in some documents I was studying for my dissertation on espionage during World War Two. He vanished not long after the war, and never pulled another assassination again.”_

“That is because I killed him.”

Clint shivered slightly at Natalia’s casual confession. He hadn’t forgotten that the elderly woman in the bed had once been one of the deadliest spies ever, at least according to Phil’s previous life, but to hear her put it that baldly was a shock. He also had no doubt that she could still kill people, even if she was laid up in a nursing home, she would just have been a bit slowed down at it.

“When I discovered that the Winter Soldier had done the deed, it was far too late to clear Aaron. So, I took my vengeance in his name, and in Michael’s, and took down the man who was responsible for murdering both good men. Then, I defected to the United States. I have been here ever since.”

She said something to Natasha, who got up and made her way over to the chest of drawers, sliding open the middle drawer and pulling out a small wooden box. She crossed back over to her grandmother, who accepted it somberly. “I managed to salvage this out of the mess.” She passed the box over to Clint.

It was plain, and it looked hand carved. Clint opened it carefully and, sitting on a bed of tissue paper, was a triangular black object that glittered in the overhead lighting.

It was an obsidian arrowhead.

His heart lurched painfully as he realized what this meant.

That particular part of the story was also true.

“Is this –” he whispered in awe.

Natalia nodded. “It is the arrowhead that Michael gave to Aaron just after they pledged their love to each other. Aaron told me where it was, and asked me to keep it for him.”

Wait…what?

“I thought _Aaron_ had given it to _Michael_,” Clint protested. After all, _he_ was the one who resembled Aaron, knew what the gifting of an arrowhead meant. _He_ was the archer, the one who’d picked up the bow as a boy in the circus and hit the bullseye with his first shot. _He_ had been the one who’d won the gold medal at the Olympics with straight perfect targets. It had only made sense that it had been Aaron who’d given Michael the arrowhead as a promise, with all the evidence of that.

Unless…

Did past lives work like that? Just because Clint had been the one to resemble Aaron, did that mean that he was, necessarily, the reincarnation of Aaron Cross? 

Instead, could Clint himself be the current life of _Michael_ _Casper_? 

It really had all been staring him in the face, now that he began putting it all together. Every time Phil had had a nightmare, he’d awakened screaming for help, and then choking as if he was being strangled. Clint could see Aaron finding Michael’s body, shouting for someone to come and help him with the man he’d loved. The photo of both men together…Aaron had been wearing a single glove on his left hand, and Phil had had that habit, if Jemma Simmons could be believed. And the period rifle displayed on Phil’s wall…it was a sniper rifle, and Aaron had had to have used just such a weapon on the missions the pair of them had been on.

As for Clint himself…personally, he couldn’t ever see himself in the Army, but he was the one with the military and law enforcement contacts. He loved the thrill of the chase, of discovering whatever or whoever someone had lost, of solving his cases. He took pride in his coming up with the plan that would lead to the ultimate resolution to the problem he would be presented with, doing the best job he possibly could. He could also be a hardass if he needed to be.

He hoped Phil was coming to the same conclusions he was, because this was _insane_.

Although, it was just as crazy as anything else having to do with the strangeness of the last several days. 

“No,” Natalia answered. “Michael was the archer. According to Aaron, his father had taught him, and the skill of it had been passed down in the Casper family for generations, dating back to an ancestor who had once been a Native American. Aaron had been a sniper, but he had been an expert with the rifle, not the bow.”

_“Whatever happened to Pierce?” _Phil inquired, after a moment of silence.

“I did go after him,” Natalia said. “However, he’d fled, perhaps because others were also getting close to discovering his being the mole. I, myself, did not get the proof of it until after I’d dealt with the Winter Soldier, and by that time he was gone.”

Fury took up the story. “Army Counterintelligence managed to trace him to Eastern Europe, to a punk ass little country called Sokovia. Unfortunately, at the time they didn’t have any sort of treaty with the US, so we couldn’t go in and drag him back out. I remember reading the reports on it, and whatever hadn’t been redacted was just long lines of cursing and swearing of vengeance. It was hilarious and terrifying at the same time.”

Clint frowned. He knew that country, Sokovia, but couldn’t quite recall where he’d heard about it. He gave himself a mental shrug. He supposed it didn’t really matter, it had most likely been in the news recently or something. “Did you ever get him back?”

“Nah. He died about twenty years ago, though. Hope he’s burning in hell, if I gotta be honest.”

_“Hell is too good for him,” _Phil growled from the phone.

Clint couldn’t disagree.

**********

Clint stayed with Natalia, Fury, and Natasha for a little while longer, promising that he’d come back to visit and bring Phil next time. Phil confirmed that over the phone before they’d hung up. 

It wasn’t just because he felt some sort of bond with Natalia…well, in a way he did, but he suspected Phil would be the one to gain the full force of that kind of obligation. Those memories were close to the surface for him, whereas Clint had never been put under to experience them himself. Phil would want to meet the woman Aaron had thought so highly of, to get to know her in this life as well as the last one. 

Just wait until he told Phil what he’d discovered about who just was whom. That was, if he hadn’t already figured it out on his own. Knowing Phil, he most likely had.

However, they finally had their answer. And it was one they’d knew would come: Aaron Cross had been innocent of killing his lover. They both had been so sure, and it was good to have been proven correct. Someone who’d loved Michael so much that he would risk being arrested, or worse, just to be with him wouldn’t have done that sort of thing over a woman. It also made Clint’s inner romantic turn to mush. Not that he would ever admit to that, of course.

He was pulling out of the parking lot and into traffic when it finally came to him just where he’d heard of Sokovia.

_Shit_.

Clint swerved over onto the side of the road, ignoring the angry honking of horns at his erratic driving. He had his cellphone out and was dialing Phil’s number, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest as his brain began adding up more and more and coming up with an answer he didn’t particularly care for to even consider.

The phone rang.

Phil didn’t answer.

Cursing, Clint threw the phone down onto the seat next to him, putting the car back into gear and merging somewhat recklessly back into the flow of traffic, earning himself yet more horns going off at him. He ignored them, suddenly afraid for the fact that Phil wasn’t answering, when he’d just hung up from him not even ten minutes before.

Helmut Zemo had been with them when Ms. Simmons had called to identify John as Phil Coulson. 

It would have been just as easy for him to have looked Phil up as it had Clint. And Zemo was from Sokovia, the same place Alexander Pierce had run to. That couldn’t be coincidence…

All Clint could think was that Zemo had approached them after seeing Phil’s picture in the paper. If Pierce and Zemo were connected in some way, then he could very well have at least heard the story of Michael’s death and Aaron’s hanging for it; also, about Natalia Romanova’s hunt for revenge. Of her tracking down the Winter Soldier and killing him. Pierce would have been living in fear of her showing up on his doorstep one day; only she never had, because he’d done too good a job at hiding, and Natalia hadn’t been able to do much and dodge the Soviets at the same time. The Black Widow had been very good, but she’d only been able to do so much before defecting to the United States.

But why would he have revealed himself like that? It didn’t make sense. 

Theories began tumbling about in Clint’s head. Had Zemo been behind the original mugging? Had he somehow discovered Phil somehow, noticed his likeness to Michael Casper, and decided to get revenge? Zemo was an antiques dealer; Phil a history professor. Their paths could easily have crossed in some way. And, when the photo with the accompanying story had shown up in the paper, he could very well have wanted to see if his would-be victim truly had amnesia. 

How shocked had he been when he’d seen Clint, with his obvious resemblance to Aaron Cross?

Zemo must have been surprised when Phil had begun to remember that previous life. Thinking back on it, Clint had seen his reaction but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, believing that he’d simply choked on something that _wasn’t_ the sheer shock of Phil talking about being in the far past. Damnit, the signs had been there…Zemo had even made that comment, the day Ward had shown up, about moving things along, wanting to know when things had started going wrong for Michael and Aaron. The PI had wondered at the time what that had meant, but he’d ended up not questioning it, simply because too much had occurred and it had been pushed out of his head by everything else. Now he felt stupid for not asking about it.

He’d been so caught up in the story that he hadn’t been worked it out, that something had been wrong at the time.

Fuck, he was usually much more observant than this!

But that led to Grant Ward.

Had Ward just been some creepy bastard who’d wanted to get someone with amnesia under his thumb? Or, was there something else to it? After all, he’d had a glove that exactly matched the one Phil had had with him; it had been sheer luck that Ward had brought the wrong one. How had he known? 

Zemo had been in Clint’s apartment. He’d seen the glove.

Clint thumbed on his phone, speed dialing Maria and hoping he wouldn’t get pulled over for using his phone while driving.

_“Hill.”_

“I need you to send a patrol car.” He gave her Phil’s address. “The resident is Professor Phil Coulson, he was my amnesiac client.”

_“Barton –”_

“I have reason to believe his life is in danger. I spoke to him about ten minutes ago. When I tried to call him back, there was no answer. I suspect that Ward had an accomplice, and that he’s gonna strike now that Phil’s alone in his home.”

Maria swore. _“I’ll send someone ASAP.”_

“Thanks, Maria.” He would have given her anything to get the cops out to Phil’s place immediately. “I’m on my way there now.”

_“Getting a unit on its way.” _With that, she hung up, but Clint trusted Maria to do what he was asking. She might not like his profession all that much, but she also knew he wasn’t prone to crying wolf. She would be contacting the nearest patrol car.

He called Phil again. Again, there was no answer.

Clint wanted to panic; however, he managed to get himself under enough control in order to keep from breaking too many traffic laws.

The nursing home wasn’t all that far from Phil’s building, and Clint beat the cops there easily. He double-parked, jumping out of the car with just enough presence of mind to shut the door. He was terrified for Phil; if Zemo was out to get him, then Clint could very well be too late. God, he didn’t want to think that. 

He’d just met Phil. He’d bonded with him in just the few days they’d known each other. In fact, he could admit to himself that he’d fallen for Phil easily. Sure, it might have been a holdover from their previous lives, but Clint didn’t care.

Clint Barton loved Phil Coulson. 

God help anyone who stood in his way.

He raced up the stairs to Phil’s floor, not wanting to waste time with the elevator. He pounded on the door, shouting for Phil to answer…

There was silence within the apartment.

Praying that Phil was alright, and knowing he would have to come up with a really good excuse if his lover was just in the shower or something, Clint put his shoulder to the door and forced it open.

It looked as if a tornado had gone through the place.

Heart hammering furiously, Clint stepped into the wrecked apartment. Phil must have put up one hell of a fight. The PI felt a wave of pride roar through him, even as his terror threatened to overwhelm him. Eyes darting around, he searched the living room for any sign of Phil.

There was nothing.

A faint groan came from the bedroom. On stealthy feet, Clint made his way toward the open door, even as he knew the racket he’d made would have given away his presence, so sneaking wasn’t actually necessary. He reached into his jacket, pulling his gun, as he took up a stance just outside the bedroom, able to see into the room from his vantage point.

Phil was on the bed.

He’d gotten dressed after Clint had left for his meeting with Natalia and her entourage, wearing jeans and a pale blue sweater; his feet were bare, and that gave him an even more vulnerable air. He was unconscious, although that seemed to be ending, judging from the way his head was moving slightly, his eyebrows pulling down into a frown.

There was blood on his forehead.

Anger flooded through Clint, and it was all he could do not to go rampaging in there, knowing that Phil’s attacker had to be somewhere nearby, most likely in the bathroom, waiting for him to step into the room…or perhaps in the closet, the door shut, listening for Clint to get closer.

He stayed where he was.

Phil opened his eyes, moaning a little as he blinked. Clint’s heart calmed itself a little, knowing that his lover was going to be alright. “Hey, Phil,” he called out from where he stood in the doorway.

Groaning again, Phil shifted enough so he could glance in Clint’s direction. “Hello, Clint. Did you get the license plate of the truck that hit me?”

“Afraid not. I’m a little late for the party, it seems.”

Phil sat up, supporting himself on slightly trembling arms. “Damnit, and I let him in.”

That confirmed to Clint who had attacked Phil. “It came to me on the way here. I tried to call…”

“And you didn’t get an answer. Which explains the gun you’re pointing in my general direction.” Blue eyes blinked up at him. “I’m assuming he’s still here.”

“Just waiting for him to show himself. It’s not like he’s gonna catch me by surprise, since I already knew he was behind a lot of what’s been going on.”

It was the closet door that opened. Well, Clint had had a 50/50 chance of guessing it right.

Helmut Zemo led with his own gun, a tiny smirk decorating his face as his eyes darted from Phil to Clint and back again. “So, you figured it out. How did you manage to do that?”

Clint gave him a smirk of his own. “Let’s just say I had an interesting conversation with a man who says he’s Army Counterintelligence.” He wasn’t about to ‘out’ Natalia; she was elderly and, while he was pretty sure she could handle herself, he didn’t want to take the chance.

Zemo lost the smirk, expression turning thunderous. “They know nothing!”

“Actually, this guy knew quite a lot.” Clint kept his eyes on Zemo, especially on the hand that held the gun, which was now pointing unerringly at Phil, who was still seated on the bed, glaring at Zemo as if he could set the man’s head on fire with the power of his gaze. “He told me about Pierce, and how he was the Soviet spy. He told me that Michael Casper was getting close, and that was why Pierce sent the Winter Soldier to assassinate him and to set Aaron Cross up to take the fall. He told me that Pierce fled the country when it got too hot for him to stay, since the Black Widow was chasing him because she wanted revenge for Aaron’s death. And, he told me that Pierce ran to Sokovia…where you’re from. Easy to put two and two together after that.”

Zemo laughed, although there was a bitter edge to it. “Pierce was my grandfather, and he was never the same after he had to run. I heard the story, and read the files he managed to smuggle away, so you can imagine my surprise when a photo of a man who was the dead ringer of Michael Casper showed up in the paper, staring off the page, and it belonged to an amnesiac. It was a no-brainer to see what I could discover…and I discovered you, Mr. Clint Barton, another face from the past.” He took a step forward; Phil tensed slightly, eyes darting toward Clint, then back to Zemo, watching him like a hawk.

In that moment, he could see the intensity of the sniper in Phil Coulson, recognizing Aaron Cross staring back at Zemo out of shrewd blue eyes, past life colliding with present. He was waiting for his opportunity to strike.

“I had to know,” Zemo went on. “I had to know if you were them.” He made a little gesture with the gun, one that had Clint’s heart racing and his own gun jerking just a bit off its mark. “So, there was the hypnosis. And the past life came out. It was beyond my wildest dreams, to be faced with the men who’d tried to hunt down my grandfather.”

Alright, so Zemo hadn’t been behind the mugging; that had been Clint jumping to conclusions. Clint was a little relieved at that, although he couldn’t have said why.

“Seems to me,” Phil piped up, “that Pierce was the one who screwed up. He was the one who set Michael and Aaron on his own trail. What did he expect…they would just give up? They’d already proved to be the best at what they did. It was only going to be a matter of time before they got to the truth.”

“Pierce wasn’t really all that smart, was he?” He could see where Phil was going: infuriating Zemo, in hopes that he would make some sort of move. If they could get him focused on one of them, the other could act. Clint just didn’t trust Zemo not to shoot if he used his own gun; in his experience, more people were hurt by accidental shootings than on purpose, and being surprised by gunfire was a really good way to cause Zemo to shoot indiscriminately. Clint wasn’t about to risk Phil getting hurt, and he could tell that Phil felt the same way.

Besides, the cops were on the way. If they could keep him talking until back-up arrived…

“You know nothing!” Zemo spat, his gun wavering between Phil and Clint. The PI needed to time it just right…

“I know he was an idiot,” Clint accused. “Putting the two men most likely to discover he was the spy on his own very trail.” Well, he knew now that Pierce had done it on purpose, in order to frame one for espionage and murder, and the appearance of the Black Widow had been the icing on the cake. So, in that, Pierce had been rather brilliant.

But the gun came to cover him. And, before Clint could even react…

It wasn’t the first time he’d ever been shot; the life of a private investigator could be fairly dangerous, and there was that time with the Russian Mafia who’d been running their crime syndicate out of his apartment building, which had ended badly for the Russians but had also ended up with Clint being in the hospital and mother-henned by a very stern Mama Darlene, which had come with a lecture about proper procedure and shooting first. 

So, when he was pushed backward by an intense pressure on his right shoulder, followed a blooming agony that radiated down into his fingers and across his chest, he knew exactly what had occurred.

He hadn’t even heard the shot. 

Clint lay on the floor, completely unable to move, but he was perfectly capable of listening to Phil yelling wordlessly, then the impact of flesh against flesh, and a chanting of, “You won’t take him away from me again,” in time with the punching. Clint struggled to sit up, using the side of the bed for leverage since his right arm wasn’t working, to see Zemo on the ground, Phil straddling his chest, his fist slamming into the asshole’s face, as Zemo fought back in order to reach the gun that had obviously flown from his fist at Phil’s attack.

Stretching out his leg, Clint managed to kick the gun out of Zemo’s reach. He slumped against the bed, watching and suddenly afraid that Phil would kill Zemo with his bare hands.

“Phil!’ He shouted, needing to get his lover’s attention before things got too far out of control. He wanted to reach out, but he couldn’t, his chest and arm throbbing in time with his heartbeat. There was something in Phil’s eyes, something that wasn’t _Phil_…and it hit him, this was Aaron Cross he was seeing in that familiar gaze. That former life, reaching out from beyond the grave in order to finally protect the man he’d loved.

Clint might not have been Michael Casper now, but there was something in Phil’s subconscious that had recognized the Michael in his soul.

“Aaron!” he tried again, hoping to reach past that protective instinct that was happy to pummel Zemo with fists, since he’d been too late to save Michael all those years ago. 

Phil being Aaron, instead of the man he closely resembled, made so much sense. It explained his screaming for help when he awoke from the nightmares, and the gagging that occurred followed by the unnatural silence. Aaron had been hanged, strangled and neck broken, and he’d been shouting out from beyond the grave, needing to get to the man he’d loved in some way. Clint didn’t know what had gone on when Phil had been mugged; that had to have been the trigger that had brought the buried soul of Aaron Cross to the fore, had given rise to a man who had been long dead.

Clint would never disparage the idea of past lives and reincarnation ever again.

“Aaron!” he called once more, this time the name getting through to Phil. He stopped punching Zemo, the man now unconscious, face bloody with at least a broken nose.

It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, really. There was a part of him that wanted Phil to go on, to take justice for those two lives lost so long ago, but he couldn’t let that happen. It would ruin the man he loved, the man who carried around the soul of another man that he’d loved…that Michael had loved. Clint couldn’t allow that. 

Justice had to be taken some other way.

Blue eyes blinking, Phil came back to himself. “Clint?” he whispered. 

“I’m okay,” he soothed, even though that was a big fat lie. He was bleeding and needed a hospital. But then, Phil was bleeding, too. He most likely had a concussion. 

The sound of sirens faded into hearing, and Clint laughed, because it was about time. He was going to have to have a word with Maria about timing…

**********

“Clinton Francis Barton!”

Clint wanted to cringe away from that voice, but knew it would hurt too much; after all, he’d had to have surgery to get the bullet out, and even with the drugs he was on he knew from bitter experience that it would hurt like a bitch with any sudden movements. 

Instead, he turned to watch as the diminutive woman stormed into his hospital room, like a miniature hurricane in a floral dress. Sam was just behind her, looking as if he was glad that it was Clint on the other end of that motherly anger and not him.

“Hey, Mama Darlene,” he answered sheepishly, barely resisting the urge to duck his head in shame. Darlene Wilson had been an amazing foster mother, overprotective and strict, but she’d not only loved her biological children but Clint, as well. He’d had no idea what would have happened to him if Mama Darlene hadn’t taken him in, and he would be forever grateful to her for it.

“Don’t you ‘hey’ me, young man.” She waggled a finger at him in admonishment. “I thought we’d discussed you getting shot once before.”

“I can’t help if the bad guys wave guns at me!” he exclaimed, needing to defend himself. “Besides, I wasn’t about to let him shoot Phil!”

The police had descended on them minutes after the action was done. By that time, Phil had moved to sit next to Clint, propping him up, using a pillow to try and stanch the bleeding from the hole in his shoulder. Maria had taken one look at the pair of them – she hadn’t said she’d be coming along, but really that shouldn’t have surprised Clint, because he knew what she was like – and had ordered Sitwell to call an ambulance. Then she’d directed the pair of uniformed cops to “take out the trash”, which had the two officers handcuffing Zemo, who was still profoundly unconscious, and dragging him down to the waiting patrol car. Maria was a tough bitch, and had always been of the opinion that any bad guy shouldn’t be coddled by such things as health care, and would make Zemo wait to get checked out until they got him back to the station.

It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Clint had to admit, he was still wrestling with a few things…but the one thing he was certain of, was that he loved Phil Coulson. Was part of it because they’d loved each other in a previous life? Probably. But that didn’t matter. He’d never been _much_ of a romantic, although he did have his moments, but there was something about finding the one you love, and loving them over and over again, even if he wouldn’t have remembered it if he’d met Phil some other way.

It was just meant to _be_. 

And Clint was okay with that.

Mama Darlene’s face softened a bit. “And when do I get to meet this man who makes you want to put your life in danger for?”

Damn, that expression on her face wanted to make Clint hope that Mama Darlene never met Phil, because there would be definite cooing involved. Then an invitation to Sunday lunch. And possibly church as well, because Darlene Wilson was a firm believer in going to worship every Sunday.

Clint had to wonder how she’d accept the idea of reincarnation. Probably, she’d say something about ‘God’s will’ and move on, taking Clint’s word for the fact that both he and Phil had known each other in a previous life. Mama Darlene was like that.

“I think that would be me.”

Clint couldn’t help the sappy smile that broke across his face as his eyes met Phil’s from where he was hovering in the doorway. There was a bandage on his head, covering the cut that Zemo had caused when he’d knocked him out; Clint knew that Phil had a minor concussion, and would be staying in the hospital overnight for observation…mainly because Clint would be staying as well, also for observation, even though his gunshot wound trumped the head wound by about a mile. Phil had been adamant about it, when they’d discussed it just after Clint had gotten out of surgery. It had been Phil who’d called Sam, letting him know what had occurred and telling him to spread the word about Clint being in the hospital.

He watched as Mama Darlene immediately went into maternal mode, bustling over to Phil and ushering him to the room’s only chair then pressing him down into it. “I’m Darlene Wilson,” she introduced herself, and Clint watched as Sam practically choked at the coo that underlay those words. Clint wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare.

“Phil Coulson.” He sounded faintly bemused, as if he just wasn’t used to this sort of greeting. Instead of saying anything else to her – which showed remarkable self-preservation instincts, Clint’s opinion – he turned toward Sam and held out his hand. “Thanks for your help.”

Sam accepted the handshake. “I didn’t do all that much. It’s good to know you have a real name, and it’s not John.”

Phil snorted. “It worked at the time. And…I didn’t mind it all that much.” He turned toward Clint, and it wasn’t the PI’s imagination that his lover’s ears had gone a little pink. “My life seems to be coming back to me now. I guess it took getting hit in the head to jar the memories loose.”

“Not exactly the way I would have wanted to go about it,” Sam replied.

“No, it wasn’t pleasant.” He turned back toward Sam, giving him a slight smile. Phil had said the same thing to Clint in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, that his memories seemed to be returning, which had prompted Clint to ask the question he’d wanted to all this time…and, no, Phil hadn’t been seeing anyone before the mugging that precipitated everything. Clint had been overjoyed, and the only thing that had kept him on the gurney was that he’d been too weak with blood loss at the time.

“That is an understatement of epic proportions in my opinion,” Sam answered.

“I’m sure we’ll hear all about it,” Mama Darlene tutted, patting Phil’s shoulder. “But, for now, I’m going to lecture my son here about taking dangerous chances and you can get an earful as well.”

Clint stifled his sigh. “Yes, Mama Darlene.”

“And then we can talk about you both coming to church with me on Sunday. We can all have lunch together afterward.”

**********

“Operation Paperclip,” Phil spoke to the packed lecture hall, “was a secret program that was responsible for taking nearly 1,600 scientists from Germany to the United States…”

Clint stood at the back of the hall, watching as his lover began explaining about Nazi scientists and how the US government had taken them all in after World War Two. To be honest, before discovering he was some sort of reincarnation of a spy from that same era, Clint hadn’t really been all that interested in that kind of subject, although he’d been fond of a lot of the black and white World War Two movies that were shown on the classic movie channel. Now, he found himself catching up on it all, Phil his willing and eager instructor in all things historical. 

He didn’t usually stop in while Phil was lecturing, but he’d been in the area and hoped to drag his lover away for lunch. He also was kinda hoping to meet Phil’s students, the ones who’d been worried enough about their professor that they’d gone hunting for him when he hadn’t turned up for class. Clint had to respect that sort of loyalty, especially when it was aimed at the man he’d fallen for.

He still really had no idea if his feelings were influenced by the past lives they’d shared or not, but Clint didn’t care. He hadn’t felt like this for anyone before, and he wasn’t going to poke it too much and just accept it.

There was a small black velvet box in the desk drawer in his office – now that he had one, since he’d given up his own apartment to move in with Phil and could afford it – that was only waiting for the right moment. Yes, it had only been a couple of months, but he knew that Phil was the One. And again, that could have been that whole past life thing taking but, as stated, he didn’t care about that. The present was what mattered.

The bell rang for the end of class, bringing Clint out of his thoughts. The students were getting out of their seats, gathering their books and what-have-you, as Phil called out over the noise, “Don’t forget to read Chapter Ten before the next class. There may or may not be a quiz involved.”

His eyes met Clint’s, and Phil smiled, waving him down to the front of the lecture hall. Clint made his way past the exiting students, bounding to a halt in front of Phil, barely holding himself back from kissing his lover senseless. “Hi.” His smile was most likely the sappiest thing on the face of the planet.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Phil replied, his smile smaller yet making the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle. He was also wearing his black-rimmed glasses, which just made him even sexier to Clint.

“Thought maybe I could drag you away for a bite.” 

Phil began packing his own books and papers away. “I don’t have office hours until 2pm, so we have plenty of time. There’s a diner about a mile away, they have great burgers.”

“Sounds like a plan. I…was also hoping to meet these amazing students of yours.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much of a choice.”

Phil’s eyes flickered past Clint’s shoulder, causing the PI to spin on his heel. Behind him – and how a group of kids had managed to sneak up on him was a question he’d be asking for a while…and, well, maybe it was because Phil was just so highly distracting – stood five youngsters, all looking at Clint with various degrees of curiosity.

“These are the troublemakers you’re so interested in,” Phil said, amused, “just as much as they’re interested in you.” He began the introductions. “Jemma Simmons, who called you.” It was a girl with light brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. “Leopold Fitz, her partner in crime.” That was a sandy-haired boy, who looked a lot younger than a college kid should have. “Antione Triplett, one of my graduate students.” He was a dark-skinned youth with a nearly trimmed beard. “Alphonso Mackenzie, another graduate student and one of my TA’s.” Another dark-skinned young man who was built like a brick shithouse. “And Daisy Johnson, the one who causes more trouble than the others combined.” She had dark hair and looked vaguely Chinese.

And who Clint recognized as Skye, his hacker friend with the Rising Tide. She was smirking, one eyebrow raised, as if daring him to say something.

He didn’t. Because she apparently hadn’t admitted to them that she was actually a semi-wanted criminal, if she was there and taking classes. Or, maybe she had, and her friends knew how to be cagey about it.

Seemed like Clint didn’t need to worry about Skye, after all.

“Mister Barton,” Jemma was practically gushing, “thank you so much for helping Professor Coulson. You have no idea how much we appreciate it.”

Clint couldn’t help but smile. “It was my pleasure.”

They hung around for a few minutes, just chatting, then he and Phil left, heading off campus toward the diner Phil had suggested. It was a 50’s themed place, of all things, but that only made Clint more enthusiastic about trying the food. He’d always enjoyed these sorts of places, and he was glad that Phil obviously did, as well. It was one more thing they had in common.

Certainly, they had things they didn’t agree on, and their first fight had been within three days of them moving in together. But they’d worked it out, and it made Clint realize that they could really do this, regardless of any sort of influence their past lives had on them. 

They both ordered burgers and fries, Clint a chocolate malt and Phil coffee. The waitress greeted Phil by name, which didn’t really surprise Clint all that much that his lover was a regular enough that they all seemed to know ‘Professor Coulson from the college’. In fact, it made him laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Phil commented, “you’ll be as much a regular around here as I am soon enough.”

Clint didn’t doubt that for one second.

“We need to head to the nursing home on the weekend,” he went on. “I have more questions for Natalia for my notes.”

It was for the biography of the infamous Black Widow that Phil had decided he wanted to write as his next book. Clint had grinned like a loon when Phil had asked Natalia about it; even Natasha, who was as serious as a person could ever be, had cracked a smile at the idea of a novel written based on her grandmother’s rather spectacular life. It would also go a long way toward exonerating Aaron Cross of the murder of Michael Casper but, Clint knew, that had been Phil’s secondary reason for wanting to write about Natalia. When he’d asked about it, his lover had said that what had happened in the past was done, and no one remembered it, so raking it up really wouldn’t do that much good. Besides, the important people knew the truth: him and Clint, and Natalia and Natasha, and Colonel Fury. They’d also shared what they’d learned with Sam and Steve and Bucky, but they hadn’t been all that involved in all that shit, except at the periphery. 

No, those who needed to know, did. That was all that mattered to either of them.

“Sounds good to me,” Clint said, taking a slurp of milkshake through his straw. “Natasha will want to sit in on it, so we’ll need to call her.”

It wasn’t because Natasha didn’t trust them with her grandmother; no, she was as fascinated by Natalia’s stories as he and Phil were. Besides, Natasha was fast becoming a friend, and they’d both talked about asking her over for dinner. This would be the perfect opportunity to do that.

They chatted through lunch. It still surprised Clint that they never got tired of just being in each other’s company, and it didn’t matter if they repeated themselves when they told stories about their lives. Phil had completely regained all the memories he’d lost, and Clint was loving getting acquainted with Phil Coulson.

They were just considering pie – Phil had claimed that the pie was the best in the city – when the bell that signaled the door of the diner opening chimed. Clint, who was facing the door, watched as Colonel Nicholas Fury entered, making a beeline right for their booth. The man was intimidating as hell in his all-black garb, his long leather coat flapping about his knees as he walked.

“Gentlemen,” Fury greeted as he slid into the booth next to Phil, making the man bunch up against the window in order to make room. Fury wasn’t an overly large man, but he sure took up a lot of space.

“Colonel Fury,” Phil greeted their unexpected guest politely, even as he was waving the waitress back over. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

Clint wished he could be as polite but, damnit, this was his _Phil_ time and he hadn’t counted on an interloper showing up.

They hadn’t really seen the man since the revelations on the night that Zemo had attacked them. Maria had called up to bitch about the government snatching Zemo out of her cells, and they’d assumed it was Army Intelligence, but beyond that…nothing. So, to see him show up out of the blue was more than a little disconcerting.

Fury didn’t answer until their waitress had taken their orders for pie – Phil wanted apple, Clint pecan – and had headed back to the counter to get them sliced up and plated. “I wanted to let you know that Zemo’s ranting and raving about reincarnation and sounding bat-shit crazy, so it’s unlikely he’ll stand trial for anything.”

That made sense, so Clint wasn’t surprised. Yes, Fury knew the truth about how they’d found out about Michael and Aaron, but it _did_ sound absolutely nuts. Of course the authorities were calling it craziness and were content with locking Zemo up in some psych ward somewhere. At least he wouldn’t be bothering them ever again.

“However,” the colonel continued, “we’ve managed to get where Pierce was buried. Got a couple of agents to check it out, and it’s been confirmed that Alexander Pierce died of old age. And no, don’t ask me how we determined that, ‘cause I don’t think you want to know.”

That comment had Clint thinking of all sorts of bizarre scenarios, up to and including men in black clandestinely digging up Pierce’s grave in the middle of the night, and made himself stop because it was probably something even _more_ weird than that and he didn’t want to even consider that shit.

“What about Grant Ward?” Clint wanted to know. From what Maria had said, whoever government agents had left Ward in the police’s care, even though Zemo had admitted to hiring him in order to get Phil away from Clint, in yet another twisted form of revenge.

“We’ll throw the cops a bone on him,” Fury answered. 

He was interrupted once again by the waitress – whose name was Beth, according to her nametag – brought them their pie and Fury a cup of coffee…unasked for, but Fury didn’t seem to mind her presumption. He actually thanked her for it, sounding honestly sincere, and about as far from the gruff tone he’d been using with Clint and Phil.

Doctoring the coffee up with an obscene amount of sugar, Fury added, “The charges against Ward will stand, since the case is pretty much airtight. He tried to kidnap Professor Coulson, here, because he’s a sick bastard who thought he could get an amnesiac to believe they were gonna be married, in order to have his evil way with him. He’s just a pennyante conman anyway, so it’s no big loss.”

Phil was nodding, and Clint could agree with what Fury said. Anyone who would take money in order to kidnap someone mentally impaired, for whatever reason, had something seriously wrong with them. Besides, Maria would enjoy prosecuting Ward, and would most likely overlook Zemo getting booted up to the Federal level because of the pleasure she would get in putting Ward away for a really long time.

Damn, this pie was _awesome_. He’d have to try the chocolate cream the next time he and Phil came here.

“Anyway,” Fury said, “I just wanted to let you know you won’t have to look over your shoulders anymore. Oh, and if either of you decide you want a change in employment…” He slid a business card across the table.

Clint didn’t take it, but he did look at it. It was a simple white card stock, with Colonel Nicholas J. Fury on in plain black lettering, a stylized eagle in one corner. A phone number was printed just below Fury’s name.

“Have a good day.” With that, Fury was up and out of the seat, striding toward the door, his coat making the movement seem even more dramatic.

Clint glanced over at Phil, who had a single eyebrow raised. “Well, that last part wasn’t something I expected,” he murmured. Clint noticed he didn’t take the card, either.

He wasn’t even sure what the pair of them could offer Fury. Not that he was going to leave his current employment. He actually enjoyed working for himself.

“I think” Clint mused, “we should just pretend that never happened, and not speak of it.”

“That is an excellent idea.” With that, Phil had the card off the table and shredded into tiny pieces, which he promptly dumped into his coffee cup, drowning them in the dregs. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got office hours and I’m sure your latest client will be wanting you to actually do your job.” His tone was teasing, so Clint didn’t take offense.

Clint left money on the table – after all, he’d been the one to invite Phil out, so it was only fair he paid for lunch. He realized that Fury had stiffed them for the coffee but, really, what had Clint expected? 

Waving to Beth on their way out, Clint Barton and Phil Coulson left to their own lives. Not to the ones they’d once lived. 

_Fin_


End file.
